


The Fills Go Ever On (for hobbit_kink)

by sour



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Multi, Spanking, hobbit_kink, i rather fancy i'm in the soup jeeves, incest in some chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sour/pseuds/sour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. Thorin/Kíli/Fíli: their first time all together, instruction (PWP, explicit)<br/>2. Dwalin/Kíli: smut and courtship (explicit)<br/>3. Dwalin/Thorin: longing (PG)<br/>4. Dwalin & Bilbo: protective Dwalin (PG, gen)<br/>5. Thorin/Bilbo: spanking (explicit)<br/>6. Dwalin/Bilbo: Bilbo courts Dwalin (PG)<br/>7. Bilbo/Thorin: accidental voyeurism (explicit)<br/>8. Bofur/Dwalin: unrequited (PG)<br/>9. Thorin/Dwalin: babysitting Fíli & Kíli (PG)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorin/Kíli/Fíli: their first time all together, instruction (PWP, explicit)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Longing (Chinese Version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/817059) by [d7b7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/d7b7/pseuds/d7b7)



> the translation is for chapter 3.
> 
> -  
> let's start off with some porn.  
> prompt and original post:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=6206017#t6206017  
> “Thorin's first time with kili and fili when they know exactly what each other likes and is like in bed so they both tell him about what the other likes and dislikes and gets off on and stuff.”  
> 

As soon as they are alone, it happens—before he has any real chance to run it over in his mind—the warm press of Fíli behind him, twisting a finger into a lock of Thorin’s hair, and Kíli in front, his eyes wide and pleading. "Thorin," Fíli whispers.

"You two—are you—"

"Thorin," Kíli repeats. "We’ve waited so long."

And Thorin realizes that he’s powerless in the end; with bruises freshly healing, wounds of their great battle only beginning to renew as lasting scars, he pulls them off to his chamber, heat already suffusing him as he observes their focused eagerness.

They pull his tunic over his head before he can kiss either of them, but when his arms are freed he pulls Kíli close, pushing a thumb into his cheek. Fíli runs his hands up and down Thorin’s torso, dragging his fingernails over the pink cuts and the marks fading from purple back into health, and Thorin growls, the little jabs of pain sparking his arousal.

Fíli’s touch disappears for a moment while he removes his own tunic, and then returns; he grinds his hips slowly against Thorin’s backside, kissing his neck with warm tongue and lips and Thorin feels the brush of cold metal aiglets against his shoulder. It makes his skin tingle and he kisses Kíli with renewed vigor, shuffling them towards his bed until Kíli’s legs catch the side of the mattress and he falls backward, laughing, pulling Thorin on top of him.

Thorin makes short work of Kíli’s trousers and boots. Soon Kíli is nude and lies on his bed, spread against the quilt, blushing from his ears to his chest; his erection stands proudly against his stomach—and Thorin just looks, because he’s seen Kíli with the reflection of gold on his face, with sapphires and silver falling through his fingers, but he’s never looked so truly beautiful. Fíli is in his trousers only, but seems content to watch, though Thorin can see the straining bulge of his cock beneath the fabric.

He leans down and licks a trail from Kíli’s navel to his chest, then fastens his mouth around a nipple, and Kíli jerks beneath him, entire body going taut and shivering.

"Oh, yes," Fíli says from behind him, a dark chuckle in his voice. "He really does like that."

Thorin lifts and pauses for a moment, breath ghosting over Kíli’s nipple, then turns his head. Kíli whimpers as Thorin’s hair brushes over him, but Thorin only looks at Fíli, whose lips are wet and red from biting. "What’s that?"

"He likes it when you—when you suck on them a bit." Fíli says, eyes flickering from Kíli to Thorin. Fíli's hand rubs slow circles between his own legs, and doesn’t stop even when his breath catches. "And use your tongue."

"I see," says Thorin, trying to keep his voice from sounding too strangled. He turns back to the Kíli, ignores his sigh of anticipation, and puts his mouth to the task, fixing his lips around Kíli’s nipple and applying slight suction. The bed creaks beside him and—as Kíli’s cry is quickly cut off and muffled—he knows that Fíli has moved upward and is kissing his brother, hand meandering downward to join Thorin and flick at Kíli’s other nipple. Kíli’s hips rise nearly off the bed.

Thorin pulls away at last to see Kíli flushed and panting, Fíli’s tongue sliding along his jaw—a flash of teeth and a possessive growl that Thorin feels in his cock—and he drifts lower, keeping his eyes on the spectacle before him, until Kíli’s cock is inches before his lips.

"Oh," breathes Kíli, "yes." And Thorin takes him in lazily until neither of them can breathe correctly and Fíli ruts against Kíli’s hip, breathing as if Thorin's mouth is on him. Thorin feels a hand tangle into his hair and then trace the curve of his ear, but Kíli has one fist clenched in the sheets beside Thorin’s head and it can’t be the other—Thorin groans, deep and rumbling, and Kíli chokes out—

"Going to—going to—"

Thorin pulls off quickly, leaving the flushed red cock bobbing in the air, and Fíli’s gasp is nearly as appealing as Kíli’s frustrated moan. Fíli still rubs himself steadily against Kíli, eyes roving hungrily across Thorin’s body.

"Mm, I love that."

"What," Thorin says, licking his lips unconsciously. Fíli pulls himself away and finally divests himself of his boots and trousers.

"When you pull off like that. Leave him begging."

Judging Kíli to have sufficiently calmed himself, Thorin casually strokes him from base to tip, eyeing Fíli’s cock as it juts proudly forward. "And his pleasure is about what _you_ love?"

"Usually," Fíli says lightly, and Thorin hears a scoff but no real protest from Kíli. He gives one long, hard stroke, then touches feather-light about the tip, watching Fíli reactions to Kíli’s strained voice

"Won’t you let us— _ahh_ —do something for you?" Kíli manages.

"O King," Fíli adds, eyes dropping to Thorin’s neglected lap.

"Soon," Thorin says. "Fíli. Suck him." And Fíli, smiling like a little lion that has gotten into a barrel full of cream, bends down and obeys, slipping his tongue over and around as easily as coming home, with wet, shameless noises that Thorin realizes are probably more for show than anything. Again Kíli’s hips lift from the bed, and Fíli encourages his thrusts, squeezing his buttocks as Kíli drives his cock into his mouth, until his breath grows uneven and his fingers tighten in Fíli’s hair—

"Stop," says Thorin, and Fíli draws away immediately, his lips wet. Kíli keens loudly at his departure, and Thorin brushes his fingers up his thigh, watching the muscles twitch. "Get in front of me."

Fíli is nothing if not respectful, Thorin knows, and loyal, if a little headstrong—he arranges himself in front of Thorin, backside rubbing cheekily against Thorin’s aching cock, and Thorin traces a finger right up to Fíli’s hip, as he had with Kíli—then kisses him at the curve of his neck and shoulder, biting tenderly where he’d bruised from an orc’s ill-aimed spear-swipe. Kíli puts one arm behind his head and the other hand on his cock, and Thorin is proud, in that moment, of how well Kíli has held himself back.

Fíli’s cock is already slick with a little come at the head, and Thorin spreads it liberally, adjusting their position so that Fíli may tilt his head back and sit comfortably against him, hands resting on Thorin’s knees. He sweeps Fíli’s hair to his other shoulder and peers over him at Kíli, who watches them with lust-darkened eyes, rubbing quick circles around the head of his own cock.

"Like this," Kíli says, and Thorin raises his eyebrows, then mimics his actions on Fíli, who writhes against him in the most obscene way.

"I see."

"Also—" Kíli moans, and Thorin knows how he’s hanging on, can hear the desperation in his voice; "—two fingers, just two fingers, along the bottom of it, I can’t or I’ll—"

"Show me," says Thorin, and Kíli bucks upward, his handwork rather too sloppy for Thorin to imitate as he comes over his belly and chest, calling their names up to the darkness, his eyes squeezing shut, and Thorin thinks he’d give all the gold he owns just to prolong this moment until his death.

"Mahal," Fíli says, after a spellbound moment, and Thorin bites him. "Can you—please—"

Thorin puts his fingers around Fíli’s and strokes him slowly, lightly—then brings his other hand to rub gentle circles about the head of his cock, and keeps at it until Fíli is squirming, thrusting into Thorin’s hand.

"Please, pleaseplease _please_. . . "

Thorin says nothing against his neck, but stops teasing him—by now, Kíli has regained himself and settles in front of Fíli, kissing him so roughly that his head knocks against Thorin’s. Thorin growls into his skin, biting harder, and that’s when Fíli comes. Thorin holds him steady, and Kíli holds him up, and when Fíli stops quivering and falls, relaxed, against Thorin, Kíli clambers right on top to give Fíli a thorough kiss.

"Ah," Fíli says, looking toward the stone ceiling as if he has found there all the secrets of Arda. "That was beautiful."

"Indeed," says Thorin. "How will you ever repay me?"

Kíli is quicker, having had longer to recover, and he pushes Thorin down against the bed, brusquely shoving his brother aside. "Let me think," he says, in what Thorin suspects is his attempt at a seductive manner, and he strokes Kíli’s hair from his forehead, remembering the very seductive sight of his self-pleasure just minutes before.

Fíli stretches out beside him, rolling so that his body lines Thorin’s on the left, and he first takes Thorin’s hand, kissing each of its knuckles before scraping his teeth along his inner arm. Kíli’s mouth dances over his hipbone, tongue darting into the hollows at the tops of his thighs, before kissing Thorin’s cock reverently. Soon Thorin’s voice is the loudest of all of them, rising to the domed roof of his bedchamber and returning to him in lascivious echoes, and Fíli and Kíli seem to be exchanging glances, taking simultaneous mental notes on what _he_ likes—and with a flick of Kíli’s tongue over his cock, he’s coming, baring his teeth in the torchlight, hands tangled into Fíli’s hair, and Kíli swallows his come down.

His vision returns first, and sound soon after, and as he clears his throat Kíli laughs in his ear—he must have crawled back up to rest beside him, because Fíli hasn’t budged from his left except to throw an affectionate arm across his chest.

"And that," Kíli says, "is our thanks."

"Although I don’t know if it’s quite enough," says Fíli, humming against Thorin’s shoulder.

"You’re right."

"We ought to really prove we’re grateful."

"Absolutely."

"Not tonight," growls Thorin, and he realizes his voice is hoarse—had he been shouting?

"Oh, no," says Fíli. "Not tonight. You’ve worn us right out."

"Knackered," says Kíli.

Fíli draws the blanket over them, and Thorin reminds himself to question each of them on the other—separately—in the morning.


	2. Dwalin/Kíli: smut and courtship (explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=6465345#t6465345
> 
> "I just need the two together in any way. Preferable with a lot of smut+courting but really anything.
> 
> Bonus for: Needy Dwalin once having sex. He likes to cuddle too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this turned out longer than expected.  
> some violent scenes but nothing more graphic than what happens in the movie itself.  
> bifur’s khuzdul is made up, based on hebrew.  i’m not an expert on this, but it doesn’t look like khuzdul retains the “v” in any of the dwarves’ original norse names; tolkien changes it to w or f.  and i think tolkien states that his use of the circumflex is only to indicate elongated vowels? i could be wrong. well anyway.  
> hope you like it!

In Rivendell, after they’ve all eaten, laughed and sung their fill, they take out their weapons—maybe more to display them to their hosts than for real care, but Dwalin has warg blood on his axe and a ready rag and oil for the blade. He works with steady strokes, cleaning the filth from the notched edge, and Kíli sits beside him.

"Lovely, those."

Dwalin doesn’t answer.

" _Umraz_ ," says Kíli, peering at the Cirth. "Truly terrifying."

"You joke," says Thorin from across the fire. "But _umraz_ is the last vision of many a piece of filth before it’s kept for good."

Dwalin keeps cleaning, and Kíli hunkers down, firelight flickering on his face, and Dwalin doesn’t turn to look, but he can see the glittering of his gaze.

 

—

 

Try as he might to avoid his eye—for Dwalin’s in nothing but his smalls and trousers and there’s no coat to hide his arousal should a half-second’s look set him burning—Kíli is never out of sight. As Dwalin packs up his belongings, wondering if the Elves have given them beds or if they’re expected to kip right on the floor, Kíli is just in the corner of his eye, shouldering his own pack with a shrug, and stays there—when he stops at the room he’s to share with Balin, Kíli keeps pace until they are inches apart.

"Can I help you," Dwalin growls, and Kíli’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"I thought if—you wanted to . . . show me how to, uh, clean my blade the way you do—"

Dwalin laughs. "Ought to have left your blade out, then."

"You’re right," says Kíli, and he presses Dwalin against the wall, pinning him with a thigh between his legs; Dwalin glances down the hall—but everyone else has retired for the night.

"This is to be quick and quiet," he says, but something gives him pause—something working hard to subdue the thought of Kíli laid out and panting on his bed— _it’s all the wrong way around_ , says that something. _You ought to do him up a sheath or put a silver-fastened plait in his hair_.

"Oi. What’re you thinking about?" asks Kíli.

Dwalin looks from his mouth to his eyes. "Putting your knife in a scabbard," he says, and Kíli laughs. Dwalin pushes him into his room.

It’s a good thing Balin must accompany Thorin—they’ll need a voice of reason in the face of Elvish and wizard nonsense, after all, and Baggins alone is hardly the one to do it. It’s dark, but moonlight through the windows glows white-blue upon the bed and Kíli pulls Dwalin toward it, shucking his clothing and emerging flushed and nude with his hair a mess.

Dwalin starts gently, teeth on Kíli’s throat, and Kíli swiftly pulls him close, and they don’t make it all the way onto the bed—Kíli balances himself right on the edge of it; Dwalin fits perfectly between his legs, and they buck together and harder and harder with off-time thrusts. The bed creaks and skids under their onslaught until Dwalin muffles his roar of completion against Kíli’s neck, where there are now bite-marks in curved rows, and Kíli tugs at himself until his hips jerk forward and he gasps, wordless, unbalancing the both of them, but Dwalin holds them up and holds him as he comes.

Kíli groans contentedly when Dwalin places him on the bed and looks about for his clothing. "Waited so long for that. Would you believe I thought I might drag you away in that little hobbit-hole?"

Dwalin grunts.

"Would’ve been too obvious," Kíli says, mock-serious and sage. "Worth all that time planning."

"Find your clothes. You’ll be missed."

"Yeah," says Kíli, and Dwalin does not miss the way he looks at him—lascivious, perpetually unsated. "How long d’you think we’ll be staying?"

"Not another day," Dwalin says, and Kíli looks disappointed, but soon rallies.

"My knife in a scabbard, eh? The whole thing, you think?"

Dwalin straightens, then looks over his shoulder. He's already decided; the rest of it is up to Kíli, now. "If that’s agreeable."

"I think so." Kíli manages to waggle his eyebrows and pull on his trousers simultaneously, and when he’s all tucked back in, he saunters to the door—grabs Dwalin’s hand—and kisses the calluses that knuckle-dusters have forged into his skin.

Dwalin almost forgets to shove him out the door.

 

—

 

Sense and tradition decree that he ought to carry Kíli’s packs, or at least one of them—so he does. Not a Dwarf besides Kíli takes notice—rather, they all take notice, but none of them shows it—and as much as Dwalin tells himself that he would not care if any Dwarf but Kíli cast him a wayward glance, he’s grateful. Kíli stays close by him, looking bright in the glitter of dawn.

 _Durin’s beard_ , thinks Dwalin. _I’m soft as a goose’s arse_.

Later, Kíli tries to do the same. He gets as far as hoisting Dwalin’s bedroll when Dwalin places a hand on his arm.

"What’re you doing."

Kíli doesn’t falter. "Thought I’d share the load."

Dwalin looks him up and down, then steps back. "I keep my weapons. Goods are all yours."

Kíli learns his lesson by nightfall, and Dwalin would soothe the ache in the poor lad’s back, but though he knows in theory that a Dwarf can put knuckles to knots, he doesn’t want to do Kíli further injury. And if there is a place to learn, it isn’t the Great East Road, nor surrounded by kin.

 

—

 

Dwalin does not like Men.

Beorn is not a Man—not the kind of Man that Dwalin has learned is often softer in the head than in his strength. When a Man, Dwalin thinks he is more bear than Man, and when he’s a bear, Dwalin cannot say that he minds at all.

He settles next to Kíli, who, concealed by the clamor of a cheery night in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, moves his leg bit by bit until they are touching. Dwalin enjoys this for now—just the knock of his knee as he leans back to rest on his palms, or when he moves forward to snatch a plate of biscuits from Fíli.

Beorn gives them wonderful fare. Kíli eats with gusto, stuffing his cheeks and laughing around mouthfuls of bread and honey and Dwalin watches him, fire trickling into his blood like melted iron cast into a mold. Kíli raises his wooden cup and drinks to them all. He catches Dwalin’s gaze above the rim and winks.

-

Later, Dwalin licks the honey from Kíli’s mouth, holding him still by the shoulders. Kíli’s only reaction is a murmur of surprise, because they are not quite out of sight of the rest, even if obscured by shadows and half a wall. Dwalin pulls away reluctantly, and they spread their bedrolls in a dusty corner of the colossal house. As long as it’s relatively private, Dwalin doesn’t care—he’ll sit with his back against a pile of rocks if it means Kíli will keep touching him.

Kíli first starts at his chest, tracing the curves and valleys of Dwalin’s muscles with an inquisitive petting motion—down his pectorals to his abdomen and back up. They had moonlight in Rivendell, but they have torchlight now; warmer and earthy, less ridiculously ethereal, it casts a golden glow over Kíli’s skin and glints in his dark hair. It’s been too long since Dwalin’s had anything but a quick rut or relief by his own hand, and Kíli’s touch on his chest is enough to quickly kindle arousal.

He threads his fingers into Kíli’s hair and they share a long kiss—all the while, Kíli caressing and tickling him, now drawing his nails over Dwalin’s forearms and to his legs, then rubbing intently between them, and Dwalin can’t stop himself; he groans low, lifting his hips into the contact, and nearly misses Kíli’s triumphant grin.

“Yeah?”

Dwalin grinds into his palm. “Keep going.”

“Whatever you like.” Kíli tugs off his boots and trousers, then frees Dwalin, and in the cosy safety of Beorn’s house they can lie skin-to-skin, shifting, exploratory. _Worth all that time planning_ , Dwalin remembers, and bites along Kíli’s jaw, against the raspy stubble.

Kíli reaches across him, into the pile of their clothes, and rustles around. Dwalin soon feels the chill of cold glass sliding across his back; it trails over his shoulder and soon he sees that it’s a vial of some pale golden liquid.

“How about it?”

Dwalin takes the vial, considering, and yanks the cork out with his teeth. It's rich with the scent of butter and apples—although the whole place smells of it, really—

He lies on his back, drawing Kíli toward him with hands on the backs of his thighs. Kíli almost wiggles with anticipation. It’s clear he’s done this before—and Dwalin is grateful, as he lies back against his bedroll, that Kíli is swift to straddle him about the waist, cock bobbing eagerly. He drizzles some of the apple-golden oil over it, and Kíli spreads it himself, biting his lip in concentration, rubbing lower, until he reaches the cleft of his buttocks. Dwalin watches his face; Kíli’s cheeks are steadily reddening, and he releases his lip.

“Need help?”

“Yes, yes,” says Kíli. “Please.”

The oil, for such a little quantity, makes Kíli surprisingly slick and slippery. Dwalin’s finger smooths between his cheeks and presses. Kíli spreads his legs to let him slide in, and it’s so tight that Dwalin wonders, for a moment, if Kíli’s acting more out of bravery than experience. He’s keen, though, breathing steadily and deeply, and soon Dwalin has three fingers in him, pumping in and out until Kíli grabs his wrist.

“All of you, now.”

His cock twitches at the prospect and he pulls Kíli upward, grasping the base, and Kíli impatiently wiggles against the head until they’re lined up—then he sinks down, brow knit in concentration, and Dwalin grits his teeth until he’s sitting completely still.

“That’s good,” groans Kíli. “Oh, that’s good.” And he begins to move.

It’s all Dwalin can do to stop his hips from jerking up into the tight, wet heat, and he settles for smoothing his hands up Kíli’s thighs where the muscles tense and bunch. It’s slow going; Kíli is cautious, experimental, finding the right angle and pace, and when it all comes together, Dwalin can feel him clenching and he growls, moving to stroke Kíli’s cock. They fall into a rhythm and Dwalin tips his pelvis up just a little each time Kíli comes down, and Kíli moans continually, head falling forward, until he stiffens, whimpering, and spurts over Dwalin’s stomach.

Dwalin sucks in a breath, head knocking back against the floor, and holds Kíli by the hips, holding him there while he pumps up and into him, eyes going slowly unfocused but still captivated by Kíli’s wet, parted lips and the stroke of his fingers over Dwalin’s chest and beard.

Kíli rolls into Dwalin’s thrust and Dwalin comes, a low moan shaking his chest. He can’t control his hips as they shudder and jerk, but Kíli slides on and off through the very last spurts, bracing himself on Dwalin’s heaving chest.

Neither of them can talk for a moment, and Kíli eases himself gingerly out of Dwalin’s lap to rest on his bedroll, which is set up adjacent. He pillows his head on one arm and keeps the other thrown over Dwalin. The flush of a good lay and all the comforts of Beorn’s house show in the fullness of his face and the brightness of his skin—it’s been days since they slept easy, and hours of rest have been scarce on the road.

Before he can persuade himself against it, Dwalin curls a lock of Kíli’s hair around his forefinger, and tugs, forcing Kíli’s head closer, then fiddles with it for a moment before splitting it deftly in three parts. Holding two steady at every twist, he winds a quick braid and lets go—he has no aiglet in his pocket.

Kíli pinches the end so that Dwalin’s work does not unravel. "Never thought you one for these."

"Never had a reason for them."

"There’s been no one before me, then?" Kíli says doubtfully, but with neither jealousy nor worry, and scoots closer so that they are lined up, like before—without the former urgency. "But I know there has."

"There’ve been ones before you," Dwalin grumbles. "But I never had a reason for a plait."

They lie together in comfortable silence.

"So you usually do it like this?" Kíli says, and Dwalin tenses, but Kíli doesn’t move back. "Practical, I guess."

"Were you warned," says Dwalin, "to keep wary of a Dwarf who fucks now and asks questions later?"

"Not so much of that," murmurs Kíli.

"You ought to keep your peace, then, unless you’re of a mind to do it the _proper way_."

Kíli says nothing but holds him closer, and Dwalin wraps an arm around him. He keeps his peace for the rest of the night.

 

—

 

They stay at Beorn’s for one day more. Only Thorin spares them a look, and Dwalin decides to talk to him after all is done, when they’re all no longer afraid of losing one another in their quest or in the battle that looms closer with each passing day. For now, he will apologize for nothing.

They bathe and eat and gather their strength, and Kíli whittles some minutes away with his knife at his bow, casually, keeping it close to his lap, and doesn’t display his work even for Fíli’s curious glance.

 

—

 

Dwalin does not like the Men of Lake-town. Kíli doesn’t mind them.

Neither of them can disagree that their ale is first-rate. Dwalin buys and Kíli drinks, and then Kíli buys and Dwalin drinks, and soon enough they start to forget who buys and who drinks, but it doesn’t matter—he’s the luckiest Dwarf this side of the Misty Mountains, he knows, bugger Dain and his wastrels in the Iron Hills. Kíli leans on his shoulder, having abandoned his stool where it lies knocked-over on the floor.

"Ohh, Dwalin," he mumbles. "I could sing to your—to your—" his progress of thought is interrupted by a rumbling belch.

"Oh, aye," says Dwalin, nudging Kíli’s head to the side. "You’re a songbird in this state."

Kíli recovers mightily. "You’ll see, if I sing a ballad in honor of your—" He leans in close again, ale-breath tickling Dwalin’s ear. " . . . heroic axe—"

"That’s enough for you," says Dwalin, and fishes out a handful of coins to slap onto the counter, ignoring Kíli’s protest and grabbing him by his hood to drag him from the tavern and out into the damp night.

Dwalin has always prided himself on his ability to keep his head—mostly—when drunk, and it’s a boon in this creaking, waterlogged town, even with Kíli leaning on him heavily and humming something that sounds like he’s made it up on the spot—and the words to which Dwalin does not want to know. They pass their inn at first but double back around and find it. Only Bifur and Bofur are awake in the wide common room.

"Evening," says Bofur, teeth fixed around the bit of his pipe.

"Evening," Dwalin grunts.

"’ _Ref tofâh_ ," says Bifur.

Kíli does not get a chance to say good evening or anything else because he is fast losing his balance and falling over Dwalin, humming louder now—with snatches of nonsensical lyrics—and Dwalin lugs him up to his room.

"Stay," Kíli mutters, looking dazed where he’s been laid on the bed, "and let’s fuck."

"No," says Dwalin, and scowls. His head is swimming.

"Stay," Kíli repeats. "Stay with me, we don’t even have to fuck, I swear. And I’ll never, ever, ever—I’ll carry your packs, I’ll do everything I’m s’posed to do, I’ll give you the Arkenstone if it ever comes to me—"

Dwalin sits on the bed next to him. He sits for a long while, until Kíli’s breathing grows deep and regular, and then he leans over and goes to sleep.

-

The light of daybreak streams through the windows, and Dwalin turns his head to block the light, but finds his movement abruptly halted by Kíli’s shoulder. The birds of Lake-town are too loud and too many.

"Mahal," Kíli groans. "Anyone who lives over-ground is mad."

Dwalin disentangles himself and sits on the edge of the bed, feeling like Erebor’s greatest blacksmiths of old have all laid their hammers to his head. It’s an hour past dawn, he judges, and if he’s lucky he can extract some willow bark and ginger from Óin without being asked to repeat himself too often—his glare is often good for moments like these—he trudges down to their common room, where Óin is up early as usual, and puts it to use.

Kíli has burrowed back under the blankets. Dwalin throws them off, ignoring his pained groan. "Drink."

"Hair of the dog," Kíli says, "an’ I’ll have you strung by your toes."

"Ay, ay," says Dwalin. "Drink it, you royal mongrel."

At first sip, Kíli makes a face, but soon the knot of his brow loosens and he squints at Dwalin gratefully. Dwalin can’t help it—he’s only had a half-cup of the stuff himself, but it’s worked its wonders; he bends down and knocks his forehead gently against Kíli’s. For once he looks forward more to days of peace in Erebor than to the murder of that great bloody dragon.

 

—

 

It doesn’t happen as he imagined it would.

Masses of Elves and Men along with Dain’s army are nearly not enough to overcome the horde of orcs that crawls down the mountain, and every kill that Dwalin makes is accompanied by a roar of rage. He swings his axes with expert grip, relishing the heft and motion; he’s missed this—the blazing thrill of vengeance.

A warg nearly overcomes him then, just as he is beginning to give in to bloodlust. Its putrid exhalations fill his nose and he can’t swing his axes with enough room to strike it, until _thwip—thock—_ an arrow finds its mark in its skull, inches away from Dwalin’s head. It slackens and falls to the ground, and Dwalin sees Kíli at the far end of the fight, looking almost shocked that he’d hit it.

Dwalin wrenches the shaft from the head of the warg. Its feathers are black, well-tended, the head bright and polished where steaming blood doesn’t obscure it—it looks more like a display piece than anything for use in battle. He turns it and sees the runes. _Umraz_. 

Dwalin holds the arrow aloft, and Kíli sees, a smile splitting his face, and then the battle goes on.

 

—

 

The din of war swells and subsides and advances into victory.

Dwalin is surprised to see that the arrowshaft kept its place where he’d thrust it into the leg of his boot. He draws it out, wiping the half-dried remains of warg gore on his trousers.

Thorin is alive—Beorn lifted him from the fray. He sees Fíli helping a wounded Balin into the mountain. Óin is already tending to Dori and his brothers—and the miners have Glóin.

All but one. He must find Kíli.

Dwalin runs his finger up and down the shaft distractedly as he looks about, feeling the markings Kíli has carved—he lets neither dread nor hope enter his heart—and he sees him then, perched like a fucking bird atop a pile of dead orcs, likely sweeping his sharp eyes across the dead and wounded for his kin.

Their gazes meet. Dwalin lets relief flood his entire body as Kíli bounds downward and to him, and—in the midst of it all, he takes Kíli in his arms—Kíli kisses him. Their teeth clack with desperation, but neither cares.

"You daft ass," says Dwalin, when he can speak again. "Don’t carve into your arrowshafts. You’ll put the aim off."

"I know," says Kíli, leaning into his chest, and holding his bow out that Dwalin might see the runes scraped into its limbs. _Ukhlat_. "I know."

"The hell did you think you were doing?"

"Courting you."

Thorin raises a victory cry that is soon echoed by his kin, and a few weak voices of Men are nearly drowned out by the bellow of a great bear. Dwalin takes Kíli to the mountain.

-

Now that they have torches and can find their way through Erebor in light, Dwalin remembers the paths he’d taken when he had barely two inches’ worth of beard on his face through to the happy days before the desolation. He leads Kíli to a little chamber that’s empty but for a dust-covered, half-burnt pile of linens, too small to have been more than slightly charred by the dragon at the far wall—throws him against the wall, and kisses him, letting the scent of him fill his nostrils, and Kíli works to unbuckle them both, finally growing impatient and yanking down their trousers, all without parting from Dwalin.

Dwalin kneels and the sooty dust raises a little cloud around them. He takes Kíli into his mouth, sucking sloppily but rhythmically. Kíli seems not to know where to put his hands, and settles for Dwalin’s head, and Dwalin encourages him, swaying Kíli forth—back—forth, until he finds the rhythm himself and thrusts slowly into Dwalin’s mouth.

Kíli pushes faster, voice rising to a wordless yell in the echoing halls of his long-lost home. He clutches at Dwalin's shoulders, and just as his cadence begins to falter, Dwalin pulls away, standing, to push their cocks together and rut against the filthy wall. Kíli spreads his legs and catches his breath, and Dwalin licks his cheek where the blood dries quickly on a shallow cut.

The need ripples within him and grows until he can’t hold the word back, no matter how he tries—"Please," he says. It's all he can think. "Please, I need—"

"Yes," says Kíli, and his hand moves quickly over Dwalin, who only half-registers the words that are coming out of his mouth, "please" and "more" and various oaths and mindless curses until Kíli drops to his knees and stretches his mouth over the head of Dwalin's cock, then down the shaft, flicking his tongue clumsily over each inch of skin. White-hot flashes of light burst behind Dwalin's eyes as he comes, shouting, into Kíli's mouth.

His knees buckle and he sinks to the floor once more; Kíli holds him, knocking their foreheads together. It's deathly quiet in the hollow halls but for the quick slide of Kíli's fist, desperate, on his cock. Dwalin looks up to see his eyelids flutter and nostrils flare, and he pries Kíli off, ignoring the whining plea, to wrap both hands around him and pump slowly, mercilessly, biting the column of Kíli's throat as it is bared to him.

Kíli comes, shaking, over his fingers, and Dwalin catches as much of it as he can, then lifts it to his mouth and licks it all, while Kíli presses his forehead into the gap between his neck and shoulder.

They rest together. Dwalin becomes aware of a small ache in his side, and finds that his coat has ripped—through to his skin. He's bleeding. Kíli feels the wound gingerly—it’s only superficial—and peers at the blood that comes away. He hadn’t noticed.

"So we've won."

"We've won," says Kíli. "It's ours."

Dwalin shakes his head to clear it. The little room stinks of dragon. "Leather," he says, "or woven?"

"What?"

"I've got an urge to do this the proper way."

It's the first time he's seen Kíli look truly sheepish. He does up his trousers, wondering how long they’ll have before life resumes into something natural.

"Woven for steel," says Kíli. "Leather otherwise. I could do it up in silver. Nice handle, maybe some runes."

Dwalin snorts. "I'd like to see your silverwork."

"Leather it is, then." Kíli smiles broadly. "You won't regret this."

"Don't give me cause to regret it," says Dwalin, already mapping out the stitching and pattern. It'll be a unique design—an arrowhead at the bow’s rest.


	3. Dwalin/Thorin, longing (PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt, abridged:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=6218817#t6218817  
> "a fic where Dwalin is raised as a bodyguard/servant/whatever for young Thorin right from his birth. . . . Dwalin and Thorin growing up together and Dwalin watching out for his prince and loving and protecting him and never having even thought of loving another ever since he saw the little princeling and ghh just a lot of unrequited feelings (or not?) and teenage dwarves and yeah. can turn into a relationship because damn they need some love in their lives, can be angsty, can be smut, anything goes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've messed around a lot with dates and birthdates to better fit movieverse. this is my disclaimer!  
> also one small scene came from [this](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/41281515578/dwalin-lets-play-with-these-must-be-fun) picture by one of my favorite artists.

"Dwalin!" Dís drags him into the throne room as soon as she can bring him the news. She's excited, flustered, nearly tripping over her own feet—"I have a brother!"

Dwalin doesn't see the issue. He has a brother. Practically everyone has a brother. The only detail about this brother is that he'll be king someday, but the dwarrow in the bundle of fleece doesn't look any more of a king than anyone else's brother.

"You don't understand," says Dís, clambering into the chair next to her mother, seemingly unable to take her eyes off the infant. Óin is there, as is Balin, who lifts Dwalin so that he can peer at little Thorin, who is asleep, a scowl on his face, one tiny fist clenching his blanket.

Dwalin doesn't understand. But, he thinks, as Thorin opens his blue eyes and yawns, he eventually might.

-

Because Thráin is fond of Fundin, and because Balin is too busy with his studies to keep Dwalin out of trouble, he lands his first ever post at the age of twenty—a guardian for Thorin.

He'd complained at first, but Thorin is braver and more confident than most of the dwarves Dwalin's age, and they get along. Dís cares more about archery than axe-fighting for Dwalin to be able to spar and practice with her, and Thorin agrees. Blades are better.

They play, like their friends, at Durin-versus-the-warg, except that Thorin really is an heir of Durin, precise and determined, and so Dwalin never complains about having to be the warg. It makes Thorin happy to hold aloft his sword and shout _baruk Khazâd!_ , and when Thorin is happy, Dwalin is happy.

Frerin soon comes into their world, a squalling little dwarrow, but by now Dwalin doesn't need Balin to lift him so that he can see into Thorin's mother's arms. Dís is enchanted, of course, and Thorin is fiercely proud of his brother, and they both pull Dwalin into the circle of their family.

-

Dwalin is technically not allowed his own real weapons at the age of thirty, but with his position as official guardian of the heir (and the fact that Balin has never been able to keep him out of the armory) exceptions are made. He has always liked his wooden axes—but what good is an axe that splits as easily as the timber it is meant to cut?—so he chooses an iron battle axe, one nearly so heavy that he can't lift it, but he holds it every day until he can swing it as deftly as Balin swings his mace. Most importantly: Thorin is jealous.

He brings a selection to Thorin, noting with pleasure the way his eyes light up as he looks at the jumble of little weapons, notched and blunted though they might be. Thorin inspects a warhammer.

"I wanted a sword, though," he says, but he takes the hammer anyway and gives it an experimental heft. Dwalin backs out of the way.

"That's not fair!" Dwalin turns quickly just in time to see Frerin march toward them, scowling, with Dís trailing behind. "You're not allowed a weapon, Thorin."

"Let him," says Dís, mouth twisted in a strange way. Dwalin wonders if she's trying not to smile. "He's got to learn at some point."

Frerin is not pacified. "Just because he's always going around with Dwalin doesn't mean he gets to have his own hammer."

"I don't want a hammer," says Thorin, and he turns it so that the handle faces Frerin. Dwalin feels a little put out, mollified only by the fact that Thorin doesn't dispute their friendship.

Frerin takes it suspiciously, eyes sliding from Thorin to Dwalin. "Didn’t he give it to you?"

Thorin only laughs. "I’m not giving it to you for keeps." And that's when Balin finds them.

Dwalin is not punished, for he's only Thorin's keeper, not Frerin's. Dís is resentful for a few days, but she likes him overall, and they're friends again within the week. Thorin doesn't stop talking to Dwalin—in fact, he seems impressed by Dwalin's nerve in fetching the weapons from the armory, and that's all that really matters.

-

Dwalin doesn't realize it until he's fifty. He’s in love.

There's no other way for him to feel; the only difference is that now he can put a name to it. Whenever he thinks of Thorin, his heart surges with something fiercer than brotherly affection.

He sometimes wonders what their lives would be like if Borin had been born before Dáin back in the days of the Grey Mountains, and if he, Dwalin, were older brother to Balin. Perhaps Thorin would then be assigned to watch over him. Perhaps it’s the gold-lust that pulls him so near to Thorin, and brings thoughts of him late at night, when Dwalin lies awake with his head pillowed on his arms and his eyes staring into the darkness, imagining things he’d never entertain in daylight. Perhaps if he were destined to lay Durin’s crown upon his own head, Thorin’s smile would linger long after they parted, and Thorin would yearn for him with this persistent, stinging joy.

The love of metal and stone, Balin had taught him, was natural, and the love between Dwarves just as natural, but often the latter does not come upon a Dwarf during his lifetime, and the former is in his blood. But Dwalin looks from iron to gold and loves iron, the servant, more than the glint and glimmer of gold. He would cherish the blade of his axe over the weight of Durin’s crown. So his excuse does not stand.

 _The love between Dwarves_ , Balin had said, haltingly, because this matters always came to him rather than to Fundin or their mother, _is natural, and necessary, and by that I mean that you can’t fight it. It may not come upon you, as it doesn’t to many, but if it does, well—I wouldn’t try to resist. It’ll only do you harm in the end_. Because their women are relatively scarce, Dwalin soon learns, in comparison with the other races of Arda, and those that do love are possessed by that love and must love well or despair. It’s necessary for their race to continue, says scholastic logic. But it doesn’t mean anything to Dwalin until he feels the truth of it himself.

Balin would pity him, and secretly think him a fool for allowing himself to fall so early for a Dwarf that cannot bear him children. He knows what Dís would say—Thorin’s royal duty is to produce an heir. She’d be right, too, Dwalin thinks. So he vows to himself not to disrupt the line of Durin for the sake of his own heart.

-

As the years pass, he keeps his secret close, but he wonders if it slips between the cracks of his stony resolve, because Thorin begins to look at him sharply, eyes lingering.

He steels himself, as befits a warrior of Durin’s folk, and soon even Balin begins to mistake one emotion for another, and has a good laugh about it each time. When Thorin comes to stay with them—when Frerin has annoyed him, or when he feels like ignoring his studies, or, really, whenever he feels like it—Dwalin always gives him the use of his bed, and sleeps on his bedroll, hardly noticing the floor beneath.

Balin catches his shoulder one night as he wanders back from the kitchen to the sitting room.

"You’re his guard," he says, as if Dwalin needs reminding. "Not his betrothed."

"I know," says Dwalin, annoyed. "He asked to stay here. Would you shove a prince out the door?"

"I’ll shove you out the door if you don’t mind your tone, laddie," says Balin, but his eyes crinkle with kindness. "Dwalin," he says suddenly, "you’re getting old now, nigh sixty-five. Cutting your hair in ridiculous styles. And taller than me, soon."

Dwalin is an inch taller already, but he wisely keeps quiet.

"And old enough to know your heart," continues Balin, lowering his voice. "I wouldn’t see you hurt for all this kingdom. You should remember your place with him."

Dwalin shrugs, pulling his arm free from his brother’s grasp. When he enters the sitting room, Thorin is resting on the floor, staring at the fire. Dwalin settles beside him.

They eat a plate of biscuits between them. Eventually, Thorin speaks.

"I’m sixty soon."

Dwalin nods.

"It won’t feel any different, will it?"

"Not really."

"It will, though," Thorin says. "It didn’t feel any different for _you_ , maybe. But I’ll have to stand beside the throne when we receive guests. And I’ll really be the heir then—legally. And you’ll be dismissed." He frowns.

"Won’t matter," says Dwalin, to convince himself as much as Thorin. "Won’t be going anywhere."

This seems to lighten the burden on Thorin’s shoulders, and he leans his head back against a footrest.

"Did you think," Dwalin says slowly, "that I only stick around because I’m appointed to?"

"Well, no," Thorin says. "It just helps to know."

-

So do they grow into adulthood, and as they near their first century Dwalin remains staunch and faithful. And when Héli, son of Hár, catches Dís’s eye, there is talk of marriage, excited whispers throughout the kingdom.

They size him up—his hair is fair, near yellow-golden, and his bearing strong and sturdy. He has a ready joke and a smile, and is handsome, though not as handsome as his intended. The silver aiglet stamped with a proud _dagaz_ does not escape Dwalin’s notice.

Nor Thráin’s. "You’ve decided," he says.

"Yes," says Dís.

Months later, the dragon comes.

Fíli is born during the passage to the Blue Mountains, with hair as fair and eyes as blue as his father’s—and as Thorin’s, Dwalin thinks—and as they crowd around Dís and her beautiful child, he remembers himself long ago.

"The heir," Thorin murmurs, and leans closer to Dwalin. "My heir."

Dwalin’s heart leaps in his chest.

-

Too soon war comes to Dimrill Dale. _Azanulbizar_ they call it in Khuzdûl, but from then on Azanulbizar is known as the name of the battle to those who speak only Westron or Sindarin, and the beauty of the valley and the waters of Mirrormere lie all but forgotten.

He nearly forgets it all himself—the stench of blood and battle, the hacking snarls of the orcs—when he sees Azog launch himself at Thorin. When Azog’s arm falls to the ground, Dwalin finds that relief and pride causes his strength to nearly triple, but though one Dwarf may fight with the power of three, he cannot kill enough to bring any Dwarf from death back to life.

Dwalin weeps with his head pressed against Balin’s. Thorin finds him soon, and had Dwalin not sworn himself to silence long ago, he’d have blurted it all there—how he’d have happily died had Thorin not been saved by his oaken branch, how Khazad-dûm meant nothing to him if the line of Durin broke in its reclamation—

They bring Héli back to Dís and to little Fíli and Kíli. They bring Frerin back, and Fundin, and the hewn body of Thrór, and little hope for Thráin.

-

Dís bears the loss well. Fíli cries silently, already learning to let his sorrow fortify his strength. Kíli cries often. Thorin is silent for a long while.

One night, Dwalin shaves his head—completely. He walks alone through the chambers of the Blue Mountains with a sack of silver jingling—no one would dare try to take it from him—and gives it to a Dwarf, who, in exchange, inks the skin of his scalp with the story.

When he returns, weeks later, he finds Thorin at the foot of the mountain, just before the gates, looking thunderous and exhausted. The sun is setting fast behind Ered Luin.

"Where’ve you been?"

Dwalin bows his head. Thorin is surprised at the show of deference until he sees the runes, and the tension seems to seep out of him.

"We had a chain of scuffles across the city. We needed you."

Dwalin smiles. "That all?"

"Yes," says Thorin, after a halt.

He follows his king into the mountain.

"Come with me," Thorin says, and Dwalin does. Dwalin has no choice but to follow Thorin wherever he leads. Of course he has a _choice_ —his position as official guardian was ended when Thorin reached sixty—but his heart leaves him none.

They enter Thorin’s chambers, where a fire already crackles in the hearth. Thorin bids him sit, and he does, muscles protesting the movement. He kicks off his boots and Thorin raises an eyebrow, but says nothing more.

He’s half aware of Thorin riffling through a heavy ebony chest for something before he sees a familiar little haft poking out from the corner. Thorin’s hand hovers over it for a moment, and then he sees what he’s looking for, and pulls out a thick glass bottle. Dwalin, though, is more interested in the hammer.

"What’s that?"

Thorin lowers his eyes, smirking slightly. "You didn’t think I’d throw away such a gift, surely."

"Maybe after you outgrew it."

Thorin pulls the hammer from the chest. Firelight flickers its shadows across his face.

"I don’t think I did outgrow it," he says softly. Dwalin’s stomach twists uncomfortably, and he harrumphs to make the feeling go away. Thorin looks back at him, eyes traveling over the fresh ink on his scalp.

"I like that," he says suddenly, and leans the hammer against the footboard of his bed. He holds out the glass bottle, which Dwalin receives gratefully. The liquor is strong and he takes only a mouthful before passing it back to Thorin, who takes even less and grimaces after his swallow.

"Good," says Dwalin. "It’s not coming off."

Thorin nods, smiling, then looks at him strangely for a moment. "Aren’t you tired?"

"Aye," says Dwalin, inwardly groaning at the prospect of getting to his feet.

"Would you want to sleep here?" His expression is unreadable, but it hasn’t changed. "You won’t be disturbed."

"Aye," says Dwalin again, before he even considers his answer. Thorin’s relief is clear on his face.

He sheds his straps and his coat, fumbling only a little in his exhaustion until Thorin steps over to help him. If he smells like weeks’ worth of the cheap taverns at the outskirts of Ered Luin, Thorin doesn’t say anything.

"What a chance I should meet you at the gate," Dwalin says.

Thorin looks up. "A chance indeed."

"How long were you waiting there?"

"Worried for my safety?" Thorin says, a laugh in his voice.

"You must have been worried for your own, else—" A half-second slips by him when the back of Thorin’s finger accidentally brushes his chest; "—you wouldn’t have waited so long for your guard."

Thorin doesn’t answer, only nods toward the bed.

Dwalin won’t mind getting back to his own rooms, but Thorin’s mattress is kingly in comfort. He feels sleepiness cloud his brain even before he settles back onto the pillow, but his heart still thuds in his chest.

"Will you mind if I stay?" Thorin rumbles somewhere to his right, and Dwalin hears the soft clunk of boots already hitting the floor.

"Be my guest."

Thorin slips under the woven comforter beside him, and, without thinking, Dwalin turns and takes him in his arms, holding him a little more firmly when Thorin squirms closer.

Dwalin keeps himself carefully still until Thorin kisses him, exhaling through his nose; he responds when Thorin presses in, and he brushes the hair from Thorin’s forehead to keep himself from clutching too tightly. After a moment, Thorin releases Dwalin’s bottom lip and leans against his shoulder.

"This isn’t what a king does," he says, "with his guard. But I’ve waited so long. It hasn’t gone away."

"I swore to protect you and to stand by you." The words are automatic, repeated often at ceremonies, read time and time again in books now lost or defiled in the Library of Moria. He strokes the back of Thorin’s neck, wondering if he’d actually fallen asleep minutes ago, and if this is yet another dream.

"I will hold you to that oath," answers Thorin. With that, they’re as good as bound.

-

Dwalin had so often wished for Thorin’s love that the days hardly seem real, now. Nothing changes in public, but in the evenings they both retire to Thorin’s chambers, or to Dwalin’s if they’re impatient. Often he sees on Thorin’s face the same disbelieving joy that he feels himself, and he knows the days of yearning are coming to an end.


	4. Dwalin & Bilbo: protective Dwalin (PG, gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=6440001#t6440001  
> Dwalin acts gruff, but he'd gladly die for any and every member of the company, including Bilbo. When someone (orc, man, goblin, elf, etc.) tries to hurt their burglar, Bilbo finds this out. Up to the filler whether it's slash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real slash in this, but there may be a sequel in the future, because i think these two would be adorable together.
> 
> one mention of blood, nothing serious.

Peace comes at a hard price. Thorin is badly hurt, and Bilbo, who would be happy if he never looked at an orc again, cannot block the echoes of their snarling from his memory.

Soon enough night falls once more, and though they are now leagues from their last predicament, it feels as if they are only tumbling from crisis to crisis, and Bilbo’s mind is abuzz with thoughts of trouble. Dwalin has volunteered for first watch, which gives him a little relief. But still he cannot sleep at all, and it’s a long while before he hears even Kíli’s snores.

He stares at the stars for a while, thinking of elves. The fire burns lower, at once a comfort and a beacon. Bilbo turns and looks at the log where Dwalin sits with his back to the rest, firelight turning the grey-black fabric of his coat into a warm, homey color that reminds Bilbo of evenings in the Great Smials of Tuckborough. He rolls back again, sighing deeply, and turns a bit more until he’s settled—and notices that Dwalin has twisted around to look at him.

 _Can’t sleep_ , he mouths, and immediately feels foolish. Dwalin wouldn’t care, even if he’s read the words correctly.

Dwalin only raises his eyebrows, then looks at his log, then turns back and crosses his arms. Only when he looks back with a long-suffering expression and a jerk of his head does Bilbo realize he’s inviting him to sit.

He tip-toes over and finds a relatively dry patch, clearing his throat as quietly as he can. Dwalin keeps his eyes on the dark horizon, but there’s nothing besides murky shapes and the flutterings of night-creatures to disturb the gloom. All the same, Bilbo nearly jumps when an owl hoots in the distance.

Dwalin glances at him, then looks forward again.

"Rough few days."

Bilbo laughs, and it comes out a little more high-pitched than intended.

"For a moment there," Dwalin continues, "I thought we’d have to commission another burglar."

"Yes, well. Got lucky, didn’t we?"

"Got lucky."

They descend into silence.

"So you’re. . ." Dwalin begins, then trails off. Bilbo doesn’t think he’s ever seen him lost for words—rather more the type to keep quiet in the first place, unless he’s had a few pints in him—but there’s a first time for everything, he supposes, and tries not to get nervous.

"I’m not going to run off, if that’s what you mean, so you won’t need to draw up another contract," he says, trying for a light tone, but the joke reminds him of his previous decision.

"No," says Dwalin, gruffly. "You’re all right?"

Bilbo chews the inside of his cheek. "Yes, I think so. It’s been—well, as you said. I’ve never done anything like that in my life, to be honest. I’m still scared about it."

"Aye. That’s normal. You’ll get used to it."

"I suppose," says Bilbo, wondering how many orcs Dwalin had faced down before he got used to it. He looks at him, noting the distinct bite taken out of the shell of Dwalin’s ear, and decides not to chance the question.

"My branch snapped," says Dwalin.

"I see," says Bilbo, although he doesn’t.

"When he came for Thorin. I would’ve been there. Bloody branch snapped."

"Well, that’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you were there eventually—you killed that warg, and by now I don’t know how many orcs. And you pulled him up from that cliff. I suppose that was my fault. I should apologize."

 _I thought we’d lost our burglar_ , Dwalin had said. Until then, Bilbo had had the distinct impression that Dwalin did not actually like him—even that he disliked him, somewhat, or considered him little more than a nuisance.

Dwalin lowers his brows for a moment, seeming not to acknowledge Bilbo’s confession—and then looks contemplative.

"Think on this. Those great birds—imagine they hadn’t come."

Bilbo shivers, and would draw his knees to his chest were it not for the threat of toppling. He had wondered at their luck, but Gandalf likely had something to do with it—just another trick up his sleeve, appearing a moment before disaster.

"I try not to think about that," he says carefully. Dwalin scoffs.

"Would you give your life?"

It catches Bilbo by surprise. He’s not sure how to answer—only that the question seems to be a bit in advance of its need.

"We’ve still got a ways to go, haven’t we?" He says weakly. "Not even close to the dragon and the mountain—"

"That’s his mountain," Dwalin growls. "Not yours. His to reclaim, with a burglar or without one. We’re all expendable, Baggins, in the worst sense of it. Fourteen of us out here with a raging orc hunting us down—what good is our goal without Dwarves and a hobbit to see it through?"

"Fifteen," protests Bilbo.

"Ah, fourteen plus one walking magic charm. What happens when the luck runs out?"

Just as Bilbo is beginning to regret coming to sit on the watch-log, Dwalin heaves a sigh. "Don’t worry your head. I only mean that we’ve got to look out for each other—keep our wits about us. You’ve got to be willing to make sacrifices."

"I understand. I think I do."

"Go to sleep, burglar."

Bilbo does not object.

-

Beorn’s house was oversized, but it was meant for just one Big Person (and his dogs, and his bees, and so forth), even if he is incredibly big; Esgaroth is a sprawling city, different even from Bree. Bree is practically like home, in comparison, but Bilbo stops himself before he can think more about it and fall into homesickness.

It is a relief to stay here, even if Bilbo is afflicted with a horrendous cold. If the Men here are from Dale, then Dale must have been a grand city. They stand tall and proud, some appearing as vast as Gandalf at his full consideration—in those times that he rumbled and seemed to grow very tall indeed—straight-backed and watchful, and more at ease with traveling by water than anyone brought up over in Buckland. And intimidating.

That last quality becomes particularly apparent when one evening, as Bilbo is seeking new pathways along the docks to sit and look at the Mountain over the lake, a shadow looms up before him.

"I’ll be," it says. "Right out of a story-book, like."

"I beg your pardon," says Bilbo, trying to make out the stranger’s face, and seeing nothing more in the dusk than the crescent of his smile.

"Full-grown!" The stranger says, and the next thing Bilbo knows he’s got a large, meaty hand on the top of his head, tilting him back as if he were no more than a little doll. "I took you for a mite of a halfling. Ah, there. It’s true, eh? Little elf-ears."

"Please let me go," says Bilbo, and he makes to shift out of the stranger’s grasp, but the hand clenches suddenly and painfully in his hair.

"Not before I’ve shown you around. That’s a night of free drinks at least." And as the clouds pass from over the moon, Bilbo sees the extent of his present danger. He’d thought Dwalin was huge and those elves had been tall, but this man seems to be both huge _and_ tall, like a warg in the form of a man—but more intimidating, because Bilbo had thought they were on generally good terms with Lake-town, so there is no chance of thirteen Dwarves coming up behind him with their blades swinging. _I’d better holler_ , he thinks, preparing to sacrifice dignity for safety.

"What’s this," comes a growl from behind him. Bilbo nearly sags in relief, but the hand in his hair would pull too much, so he keeps upright. From the clank that accompanies each of Dwalin’s steps, he’s brought Grasper and Keeper with him.

"Just a little fun," says the man, still not letting go of Bilbo’s hair. "You’re one of those thirteen, are you? Come to ask for your halfling back?"

"Got it in one," says Dwalin. "Unless you’ve got other ideas, in which case I’ll be taking him back."

"Little things, the both of you," says the man, and draws a knife so long Bilbo wondered how he’d kept it hidden—and immediately Dwalin has a blade free too. Bilbo shuts his eyes tight.

There’s nothing more than a huff of exertion from Dwalin, and suddenly Bilbo is released. Instinct tells him to get on the ground, and he does, wishing that he could slip on his ring without a fuss, but neither of them seems to notice him crawling toward the edge of the dock. Dwalin is in his element, driving the man back with practically no effort at all, when Bilbo hazards a glance backward—and the man growls all manner of curses and insults at him, until—

"Stunted bastard!" Blood shines dark in the moonlit evening, spreading on the man’s tunic over a new cut at his ribs. He drops his knife and holds the wound.

Dwalin only laughs casually. "Ah, ye great bonehead—now you know, don’t you?"

"Fuck off." The man spits at Dwalin’s feet, but Dwalin only snorts.

"That’s no real hurt. Have it stitched up, and tell your friends not to go hunting halflings. While you’ve still got a mouth to tell them," is Dwalin’s last warning, and the man, seeing no other avenue (and having lost sight of Bilbo, apparently), spits again and stalks off.

Dwalin sheaths his knife and looks around, finally catching sight of Bilbo, who stands and dusts off his trousers awkwardly.

"Getting yourself in danger again."

"I’m sorry," Bilbo says, feeling ashamed. "I only wanted to—"

"Ah, shut up," says Dwalin, but there is kindness in his voice, and Bilbo smiles shakily.

"Thanks."

"I told you that I’d give my life, didn’t I?" says Dwalin, cocking his head, and they start back to their inn. Bilbo thinks back to their knight on the watch-log, and how Dwalin had been so willing to take a warg or a troll or an elf in combat. He hadn’t realized that Dwalin had meant _him_ as well.

"Thank you," Bilbo says again, and means it. Dwalin surprises him with a clap on the back, which sends Bilbo off-balance and a few paces forward.

Bilbo sticks close by him until they arrive.

-

"Ah, so he’s in one piece!" calls Bofur, who is up for a late-night snack. Fíli is with him.

"Aye," says Dwalin. "And so he’ll stay."

"Good job too," says Fíli. "Ah, Bilbo, they’re, er, out of rooms, they said, so we’re doubling up."

Bilbo looks toward Dwalin, who nods almost imperceptibly.

"That’ll be fine," he says. And for the first night in a while, with Dwalin’s snores rattling through the dark from the bed across the room, Bilbo sleeps at ease.


	5. Thorin/Bilbo: spanking (explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=10333973#t10333973  
> Thorin notices he's been a jerk to Bilbo all the time because of his distrust, and after they escape Azog, he asks Bilbo to punish him in any way he may consider suitable for his behavior, as he owes him his life.
> 
> Bilbo decides for spanking.
> 
> +10 if Thorin ends up really enjoying it  
> +100 if it turns into sexy times with Thorin bottoming  
> +1000 if others of the company noticed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i saw this prompt and the idea wouldn't leave me alone until I finished it. uh, this is basically pwp.

They've still got to go countless leagues through the forest ahead of them, to face down a dragon and who knows what else, and to face much of it without Gandalf—but Bilbo has just stepped down from the back of a great Eagle the likes of which are spoken more often in stories than in regular Shire business. He has been embraced by Thorin Oakenshield, heir of the House of Durin and future King under the Lonely Mountain. He is dead tired, and he is happy.

They camp a day's walk away from the Carrock, by which time Bilbo is nearly falling over from exhaustion. Thorin orders them about, despite the scratches and bruises all over his face, and Bilbo's stomach has stopped its flipping to remind him that he has not had an actual meal in hours. He lies on his back, and a bowl is brought to him.

"Thanks," he murmurs. His companion hums in response and sits next to him—it's Thorin.

Bilbo eyes him warily. He seems—well, if not exactly _friendlier_ , then certainly less unfriendly.

"How are you faring?"

"Me?" Bilbo says, nearly laughing. "I'm faring no worse than I was before. But you!"

"None the worse for wear," says Thorin lightly, but Bilbo has watched him all day, and he still moves with a slight limp, as though doing his best to mask something much worse, and glaring all about in a silent dare for anyone to mention it.

"The wear is worse on you," says Bilbo. "Worse than on any of the rest of us. I should sleep soon, were I you, and I'll talk to Gandalf a bit about that magic . . . whatever-it-was that he performed."

"I confess I heard that old man's mutterings, but I thought it some kind of prayer," muses Thorin. "Well, do what you must, if you think yourself my protector. And that just leaves it for me to say—"

Bilbo glances at him, wary of his new tone. Thorin's face grows serious, and he looks at the company for a moment before speaking again. His words are oddly formal.

"My behavior until now has been unjustified and shameful. I ask you to name my punishment, and issue it, so that I may make amends and be forgiven."

"Your—I'm sorry?"

"My punishment," Thorin says, gritting his teeth, and his voice has gone so low that Bilbo must lean in to make sense of it. "Mr. Baggins, I thought that this would be an easy matter between us."

"But why?" asks Bilbo. "I—well, it's like I said. I can't blame you for getting fed up. I'm not cut out for adventuring."

"All the same," says Thorin, and Bilbo is taken aback by the deliberation of his words. "This is something for which I do need to apologize."

"I think you've made amends," says Bilbo, wondering what Thorin can give other than an actual vocal apology.

"No," says Thorin, sounding as puzzled as Bilbo feels. "I haven't."

Bilbo casts his mind about, trying to think up everything he has ever read or been told about Dwarves. They're very honor-bound, he knows, and by now has had enough experience to say it with confidence himself. A company of them thrown together by an unseated king, with thirteen members of every imaginable rank, can go into the wild on a quest for an entire mountain, and actually expect to retake it. Any of them would throw himself into battle for the others—all of them know, by now, that an orc's arrow can end life as swift and cruel as a dragon. He takes in the scabs and bruises on Thorin's face, and the stiffness with which he holds his body.

"Haven't you had enough of that sort of thing?"

Thorin looks at him dubiously, and Bilbo is just beginning to hope that he hasn't made a mess of yet another night, when he speaks again.

"It seems this is an unfamiliar formality. I've not been punished by the pale orc for anything that _I've_ done—he is determined to kill what is left of the House of Durin. I've done no wrong by him. But I've done wrong by you. I owe you my life, moreover. The selflessness you've shown makes my offense twofold. And I ask that you right this debt."

"All right," he says slowly. "I suppose there is a way that I know. But we'll have to wait until we get to shelter."

"Agreed," says Thorin, and that seems to cheer him. Relieved, Bilbo starts in on his stew.

-

He's mad. He must be absolutely mad.

It had come on him suddenly, when Thorin had all but begged to be punished, that Bilbo understood— _Thorin all but begged to be punished._ Truly, honestly asking to be—shown the error of his ways? By what means? Try as he might to be creative, only one thing surfaced in Bilbo's mind, and once it got hold, it would not leave, not for hours. The image of Thorin on his knees, face on the floor, bent over so that Bilbo can— _not here_ , he thinks hurriedly, willing the scene away before he can make a fool of himself in front of the Dwarves.

Gandalf is long in introducing them to Beorn. Bilbo doesn't mind; the great man is at once fierce and jolly. All the same, he would rather like to get inside and comfortable, but it is a delicate operation to do just that. He feels Thorin stir beside him, and is caught afresh by a wave of images and by Thorin's voice murmuring in his mind: _I ask that you right this debt_.

When they are finally taken inside, Thorin's glare upon Bilbo is so intense that Bilbo is practically quivering with nerves by the time they ready themselves to sleep. Thorin corners him while the rest engage in a pot of honey produced by Beorn's bees.

"I expect to be relieved of my obligation soon," he says. Bilbo nods almost automatically—but what if, he suddenly thinks, he could hold this entitlement over Thorin? To really think on it until he can think of something less bawdy and more formal, something that befits a king—

 _But he really did ask so nicely_ , he remembers. _And I expect he'll be unhappy if he's left waiting_.

There's nothing for it.

-

As soon as they are able, Bilbo and Thorin leave and scan the corridor for a private room. Bilbo is only too aware of the eyes on his back as he marches from the hall, but he holds his head high. If Thorin himself demanded penance from any of them, they would be powerless to refuse.

They find a suitable place. Everything is overlarge, but Bilbo is used to that, and Thorin has spent so much time in the cities of Men that it does not seem to bother him either. By turning over the chamber-pot, Bilbo can easily get onto the bed, and he sits, trying to look as dignified as possible.

Thorin bows. There is no more stiffness in his movements, Bilbo realizes; Dwarves must heal quickly. That is a relief, because Bilbo has not found any other solution to his impending problem.

He might as well get on with it.

"Would you take off your trousers?" He asks, surprised at his own composure.

Thorin only lifts an eyebrow. "Hardly formidable. Try to use some spirit if you are going to order me around."

Trying to ignore how odd it is to obey an order about giving orders, Bilbo straightens up a little. "Take off your trousers," he says, and Thorin smiles—then undoes his trouser placket. They fall to the floor and get kicked aside.

"Your coat, now," he says. "And your shirt. All the rest, while you're at it."

Thorin obeys, albeit slowly, and as he pulls his underwear off Bilbo takes a deep breath.

"Come—" he begins, but his voice is weak. He clears his throat. "Come here."

Thorin walks toward him with stately confidence, although he is somewhat disadvantaged by the height of the bed. Bilbo looks him over—smooth, muscled flesh, freckled by the sun, as hairy as is to be expected of a Dwarf, but not unattractively so. His clothing and coat had certainly exemplified the thickness of his torso. Without them he is pleasingly robust and brawny, and his bearing grand.

"You're quite handsome," says Bilbo quietly. He expects Thorin to laugh, or to brush it off as something he's heard countless times—but Thorin inclines his head, lowering his lashes and then looking up again at Bilbo.

Bilbo leans forward, examining the dark bruises at Thorin's ribs. They've turned a purplish-green already and will likely soon begin to fade. Thorin lifts his arm obligingly, and Bilbo runs his fingers over them, glancing now and again at his face, but there seems to be no sign of pain. He sits back again.

"On the bed," he says, and Thorin nods again before joining him. They sit side-by-side; neither of them can touch the floor with his feet. Now that he is up close, Bilbo is able to take in the size of him—from his muscular legs to the proud dark hair that falls to his back. And everything in between. Bilbo feels hot about the face.

"Over my lap, please," he says. Thorin looks him up and down, lip curling, and Bilbo is prepared to laugh it all off, apologize, and run for the hall, but Thorin rises to his knees and makes to put a leg over Bilbo's lap—

"No, no," Bilbo says, putting out a hand to stop him. Thorin's stomach is firm and hot and Bilbo forces his mind to keep working. "Bend over, I mean."

"Ah," Thorin says.

Bilbo has never spanked anyone before. He's hardly ever been spanked himself, unless his childhood counts, or the one time Sigismond Took got the idea that Bilbo needed it—and only for a quietly borrowed pinch of pipeweed. He'd rather enjoyed it, as he recalls. But that isn't of any import now. Thorin lies over his lap. Were it not for the apparent solemnity of the custom, Bilbo would let himself laugh at the sheer absurdity.

"Get on with it," says Thorin, causing him nearly to jump.

"Right," he says. _Buck up, Baggins_. "Right, okay. Brace yourself, now."

There is a small sound of derision from Thorin, but Bilbo feels him tense. And when he brings his hand down— _smack_ —Thorin starts. He says nothing, though, and when a lovely pink mark blossoms on his behind, Bilbo feels himself grow bolder.

He hits him twice more, pleased with how the sound echoes off the wooden walls. There's really nothing to this.

"How many?" Thorin says. Bilbo realizes—of course. He can't keep it up all night. Thorin certainly wouldn't appreciate it.

"Err. Thirty?"

Thorin nods, then settles back down. "Three so far."

"Yes, I know, thank you," says Bilbo. "Aren't you the one supposed to be receiving penance?"

"My apologies," says Thorin.

"Very good." He feels ridiculous, but—at least _he's_ the one in control here. And it suits Thorin, it seems, to be laid out like this. It suits him.

Bilbo smacks him a few more times, and Thorin counts quietly—he takes it very well, even if his breath is getting heavier with each strike, and even if he is getting a bit stiff holding himself across Bilbo's legs, and—ah.

That is an unmistakable feeling, especially since Thorin's got nothing like a scabbard or the handle of a sword to excuse it. No, that is certainly—Bilbo blushes to the tips of his ears, and he hesitates before his next smack.

"Is something wrong?" says Thorin, and Bilbo bites the inside of his cheek.

"No, no. Nothing's . . . wrong."

"Get on with it, then." Thorin's voice is harsher and lower, if that's possible. Bilbo's toes curl.

He gives Thorin another few smacks, noting the count. Thorin's buttocks are beginning to redden prettily. A faint outline of Bilbo's hand has appeared, and Bilbo aims for it, wondering how dark he can make it. But he's slipping a bit over the edge of the bed.

"Do you mind if we move back?" He says, overly conscious of Thorin's hardness now very apparent against his leg. "Only I don't want you to fall."

Thorin sighs but lifts his hips. Bilbo swallows, then scoots backward. If all the beds here are of such a size, then they can easily hold three dwarves each without any crowding in the night. The mattress is firm, but not uncomfortably so—and anything is better than sleeping on a cold cave floor.

"All right," he says. "What was that? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen," says Thorin, kneeling and pulling his arms behind him to stretch, which effectively thrusts out his chest and draw's Bilbo's attention downward. He makes no effort to hide his flushed, proud cock, which somehow is just as thrilling as the fact of his arousal itself. With an effort, Bilbo tears his gaze away and looks up at Thorin's face, knowing he must look as captivated as Thorin is meant to feel.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," Bilbo manages. "Not at all." But he himself is undeniably hard now, his only comfort that he has his pants and trousers still on, inadequate as they are to hide his interest.

"Shall we continue, then?"

Bilbo leans back, and Thorin places himself once more over his lap, shifting until he's comfortable—poking Bilbo's thigh, and his hip up against Bilbo's crotch. Bilbo rests his hand on Thorin's bottom, feeling the heat and sturdiness of it, before he issues another three smacks.

"Seventeen. You're all red, Mr. Baggins." Indeed Thorin is looking up at him, and Bilbo licks his lips, which have suddenly gone dry. Thorin's own cheeks have gone an appealing pink.

"Be quiet," he says, though he lacks the conviction of a dwarf king, but Thorin does, only speaking out again when they hit twenty. Thorin exhales harshly on each smack, and Bilbo tries to find new territory for his hand, but space is rapidly decreasing—and perhaps Thorin likes to be smacked where he's been smacked before.

At twenty-four, Thorin groans—a long, drawn-out, ragged groan. Bilbo pauses, seeing his handprint in exquisite red where Thorin's upper thigh curves into his buttock.

"Are you all right?"

Thorin looks at him again, then slowly, deliberately curves his back and lifts his hips. Bilbo sucks in a breath, tracing the heated skin.

"Six more."

Bilbo gives him one a bit harder, just to see what he does—it lands with a resounding _whack_ on Thorin's left buttock, and Thorin practically moans his count.

Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Bilbo begins to feel adventurous— _and a good time for it, too,_ he thinks, _now that you've almost finished_. He places his next slap in the middle but a little lower, so that Thorin may feel it closer to his cock, and keeps his hand there; Thorin responds by lifting into his touch. They finish like this, with Thorin's buttocks in the air and Bilbo almost desperate for them to be lowered again that he might feel some relief at the contact.

As soon as it ends, though, Thorin slides from Bilbo's lap and steps down to the floor. Bilbo's hand is hot and tingling, and he can only imagine how Thorin's buttocks feel—they certainly look ruddy and well-used. It's a beautiful look on Thorin. Bilbo is desperate to free himself; perhaps Thorin will leave, now, and he can bring himself off. But Thorin is making his way back from the pack that he'd brought into the room, and— _oh_. Bilbo understands, now, why he brought it.

Thorin looks pointedly at Bilbo's lap and the conspicuous bulge of his arousal, and gives Bilbo a small flask. Bilbo pops it open. It smells like some pleasant sort of olive oil, perhaps nicked from Bombur's inventory, and it's lovely and slick over his fingers, warming quickly to their temperature.

"I trust you need no instruction in this," says Thorin, and kneels again, presenting his bottom in a way that is simultaneously regally imposing and too lewd for words. Bilbo traces the marks he's left, then slips his fingers between Thorin's buttocks and begins to rub gently until he can introduce a first finger—slowly, but Thorin tenses and relaxes and makes it easier for him to establish a stroking rhythm.

Two fingers now, and Thorin is pushing back into the caress, cock swinging hard below his stomach. Bilbo has both hands on Thorin, and if it weren't embarrassing he would shuffle forward and press himself against Thorin's thigh, rut until completion with his trousers still on, but this is for Thorin—and, as he adds a third finger and feels Thorin accommodate the stretch, he cannot begrudge him that.

"Enough," Thorin says, voice rough. Bilbo draws his fingers out slowly—but surely this is no longer considered part of Thorin's punishment.

"Thorin," he says, but Thorin fixes him with a glare.

"Your trousers are still on."

Bilbo unlaces them quickly and spreads the oil over himself; his cock is aching with need, now, and by the way Thorin shifts and spreads his legs, he knows a similar need is growing.

"Are you ready?"

" _Yes_ ," Thorin grinds out, and moans when Bilbo lines up against him.

The heat and tightness are nearly unbearable; Bilbo gasps as he presses in all the way and stills. Thorin flexes and contracts around him, sending a jolt from his cock to his entire nervous system, and Bilbo pets him almost automatically, hands stroking his back and thighs until Thorin gives a jerky nod.

Bilbo begins to move.

It's slow at first, but Thorin adjusts himself well, and after a while commands him to move faster. Bilbo can do nothing but oblige, although he doesn't trust himself to hang on long enough—so he braces himself on Thorin's back, pressing his lips to the proud crease of his spine, and grasps Thorin's cock, slicking it up with the oil that still runs down his palm and between his fingers.

Thorin keens low but loud, and Bilbo can feel it practically run through his body. He brushes against Thorin's flushed buttocks with every thrust. Thorin keeps him upright as he moves, and his hand trails from his cock to the marks he's left over his thighs and arse, thumb pressing into the handprints, and Thorin stills beneath him, keening, as he comes.

Bilbo is not far behind. He clutches Thorin's sides, fingers digging in, and gives a final push, giving in to the delicious rush. Around him, Thorin shudders, and Bilbo can't help himself—he places a small kiss on Thorin's back, and Thorin hums low when he pulls out.

He flops back onto the bed and sighs. Thorin lowers himself slowly to lie beside him.

"I trust that was satisfactory."

He glances sideways. Thorin looks thoroughly mussed, and the flush has not gone from his cheeks. "Oughtn't I to be asking you?"

Thorin sighs. "Quite satisfactory here. Am I forgiven?"

"Wholly," says Bilbo, pleasure spreading to his toes when Thorin smiles. "Utterly forgiven."

"Good." Thorin pulls him near. They spend the night there, worn out and content, and when Bilbo wakes in the morning, he finds that Thorin still holds him close to his chest.

-

They rejoin the company late—only when Bilbo's stomach growls and he remembers that in the comfort of Beorn's home there is a chance of two entire breakfasts. He gets there before Thorin, relieved that there are still plenty of eggs and toast to go around, and an entire pot of honey again to sweeten their tea. None of the company mentions anything about his night—outright—but Bofur winks three times before Bilbo frowns at him to stop, and Fíli won't quit his smiling.

Thorin enters almost an hour later, freshly washed. Bilbo nearly drops his toast, realizing that he must still smell like a night of spanking and sex. But when Thorin comes up behind him and snatches the plate right form his hands, his embarrassment is replaced by indignation.

"Here, now! That was mine!"

"And now it's mine," says Thorin, a wicked smile threatening to break. "Are you going to covet toast from a king?"

"You're not _my_ king," Bilbo grumbles.

"Pass the honey, Mr. Baggins."

Bilbo glares, but Thorin lifts his chin, gaze moving expectantly from the honey back to Bilbo, until Bilbo hands it over. Kíli snickers, and Dwalin elbows him.

"What's the idea, here?" says Bilbo.

"Are you upset?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"Grievously injured?" Thorin asks casually, pouring honey on his toast. It's as golden as the oil he'd brought in his pack the previous night. Bilbo decides to ignore that very unavoidable fact.

"If you keep it up, perhaps."

"Dear me."

And Bilbo suddenly understands, nearly laughing to himself, as Thorin dips his fingers in the honey and brings them to his mouth for a taste. If Thorin wants to formally repent once more, he wouldn't object.


	6. Dwalin/Bilbo: Bilbo courts Dwalin (PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=6363969#t6363969  
> "Alright alright, I know there's like a million courting fics out there but I want another one. One where Bilbo is the one doing the courting.  
> In fact, what I want is Bilbo working hard, collecting fruits, berries and other ingredients during a couple of days and keeping them from the Company in order to be able to cook something splendid, or as splendid as it can go, for his intended.  
> So yeah, Bilbo cooking for the one he's trying to court and only for him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, op, i used some of your phrasing! i thought it was sweet. hope it's all right that dwalin was the dwarf of my choice.  
> on another note, i quite like this pairing and might continue the story line in a separate fic.  
> this fill/chapter can be considered a sequel to the fourth fill/chapter and things will make better sense if you read that one first.

He first notices when they've stayed not two days, all of them doubled-up in rooms to save space for the inn, and Baggins agrees to stay with Dwalin. _And why not_ , he'd thought. _The little bugger needs looking after_.

The fact becomes only too apparent when Bilbo begins muttering to himself when he thinks Dwalin's asleep. The words are hard to make out, but it's something like _flower, nutter, hmm_ , and Dwalin is inclined to think that Baggins himself might be a nutter. Perhaps hobbits aren't meant to go journeying so far, and when they do they lose their senses for a while. Inconvenient, now that they've just gotten themselves to safety. Ah, well.

Bilbo doesn't seem too bad the next morning, although for some time he doesn't quite meet Dwalin's eyes, which is a shame, Dwalin thinks, after they've come so far. It doesn't seem regular, somehow. But he puts it out of his mind. By mid-afternoon Bilbo acts normally once more, and disappears for a while into the market while the dwarves take their rest. He comes back with pouches bulging, looking very satisfied, and Dwalin watches him climb the steps to their room.

The next day he can be seen in close conference with Bombur, who considers something for a long time before nodding. Bilbo practically does a little dance and Dwalin catches himself before he laughs and is noticed—noticing. While he fixes his eyes around the room, Bombur and Bilbo exchange something, and the hobbit is gone before he glances back again.

Fíli notices, too. "What d'you suppose that's about?"

Dwalin only shrugs, thinking that if Fíli has a claim in anyone's business, it isn't in Bilbo's.

When he heads up to bed, Bilbo is reading something by the light of a dying candle, lower lip caught between his teeth. It's very—Dwalin doesn't know the word for it, so he turns and strips down to his smalls, wondering if there will be a chance of a bath in the morning.

When he turns again, there is a hint of movement, as though Bilbo had been watching him and had turned his gaze away quickly when there was a chance of being caught. He's peering intently at his book, now, although his eyes don't move across the pages. Dwalin squints at the cover, but the light is too dim to read the title, so he instead turns his attention to the row of sacks below Bilbo's feet.

"What're those?"

"What?" says Bilbo, evidently distracted. He follows Dwalin's pointing finger. "Oh! Er, that's nothing."

Dwalin grunts, resolving to forget it, and gets into bed. But the next morning, when he wakes, he turns immediately and sees—the stacks are barely visible, shoved far under the bed with Bilbo's packs walling them in as if to hide them.

-

Dwalin visits the tavern across the road from their inn—an attractive place, apparently built to accommodate dwarves whose business takes them to Esgaroth; he's heard there are many. Good ale, too, but it's early yet, and he can see Nori sitting in a corner—on his own, without a brother around to reign him in should some fool's coin-purse catch his eye. The Men give Dwalin a wide berth, and Nori sees him easily—and winks.

He has two choices: get pissed and force himself to overlook any inevitable thieving, or leave and hope that Nori, if he gets caught, will tactfully forget to mention he'd ever been there.

Dwalin has no particular attachment to Lake-town or its goods. He pays and leaves. Nowhere to go, now, except back to their inn, as the sun sets, spreading red and orange across the waters.

He's just made it through the door when he physically collides with Bilbo, who stumbles backwards with a little "oof" and drops his armful, which clatters around the floor like wooden marbles. Dwalin stoops to pick one up—a walnut.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry," Bilbo says, and reaches out to take it back, but Dwalin keeps it from him. He briefly entertains the idea of grabbing another and cracking them in his palm—but to what end? The hobbit would be more frightened than impressed. He relinquishes the walnut.

"Maybe you're hungry," Bilbo says, ducking his head, then stooping to pick up the others. When he comes back up, his face is pink. "These are leftovers. I've—er, well, it's just a small something—"

"I am," says Dwalin.

"Oh, good." Bilbo turns on his heel and marches right off into the hall. The inn's kitchen, left alone for their use (after insistent persuasion from Bombur), flickers with warmth; Dwalin enters carefully.

"I wanted to do something splendid," says Bilbo. "Or as splendid as it could go." He seems almost bashful, stepping from foot to foot anxiously, and that's when Dwalin sees them—a batch of biscuits, golden-brown and beautiful. One has been cut open and is still steaming slightly. His mouth waters.

"You made these?"

"Well, it's not as if you haven't tried my biscuits before," says Bilbo, looking less reproachful than he sounds. "These ones have nuts in, though, and fruit."

Dwalin sits and Bilbo sits beside him. And then he notices—

"Not many of these," he says. "Only—ten? Leaving someone out?"

Bilbo seems confused for a moment, then looks up at him with an expression Dwalin can't place. "No," he says quietly. "But yes. Only ten. Well, I had a few. It was just . . ."

 _Oh_ , Dwalin thinks. And then: _oh_.

He's being courted.

He looks back at little Mr. Baggins, whose nose still has a smudge of flour on it, and gets a sudden urge to wipe it off. It only makes sense. Everything important for hobbits must have something to do with food; it is so dear to their hearts that matters of love are certainly no exception.

"Well," says Bilbo, and Dwalin realizes that he's waiting for an answer. He picks a biscuit from the tray and takes an immediate bite. Warm and buttery, with bits of apple and raisin, not at all as dry as the first ones he'd snapped up at Bilbo's smial.

" 'S good," he says as well as he can around his mouthful. Bilbo let's out a laugh that's half-sigh, and smiles, picking up one for himself, and they eat in silence, rather close together.

They nearly finish the lot. Hobbits' stomachs hold about three times the amount of food that Dwalin expects, but Bilbo has likely been just as hungry as the rest of them during their journey, and is simply making up for lost time. The last few are wrapped carefully in a clean cloth and stowed away somewhere—to be brought up, Dwalin hopes, so that they can have them in the morning.

He imagines it: a nice, quiet breakfast, and then perhaps he'll try the hobbit custom of second breakfast when he comes downstairs. All this luxury will get to him in a bad way.

"Oh, you've got—hold on," says Bilbo, and brushes something from Dwalin's beard, then laughs at himself, although Dwalin can't imagine why. "Don't want anyone guessing, you know."

"Right," says Dwalin, and checks his teeth for crumbs. It's about time to ask, he reckons, if he's going to ask at all, and Bilbo probably knows it too. "You want to?"

Bilbo's face is blank. "Want to what?"

Dwalin scowls. "Am I not getting this straight? This wasn't a—gesture?"

"No, no! It was," says Bilbo, looking sheepish about the direct terms. "I just . . . I wasn't expecting to have it go so quickly."

Of course. The indirect approach, the sideways glances—hobbits are different folk through and through. Dwalin nods.

"Generally," Bilbo says, brushing nonexistent crumbs off his lap, "we'll—hobbits, that is—we'll have a few meals together, and this was an untraditional order of things, but I knew you liked biscuits and I hadn't any other ideas at the time. These can function as breakfast, anyway."

"Had that idea myself," says Dwalin, but he wonders how many meals they'll have to get through until he can press Bilbo against the wall of their room and fuck him silly. He hopes it isn't the full—what was it? Six?

"—all seven meals," Bilbo is saying. "And then, well, we'll see how it goes."

"Four," Dwalin says, and Bilbo gapes.

"Are you _negotiating_?"

"Four meals, and then we—"

"Anything fewer than five is hardly appropriate! Five at the least."

"Four," says Dwalin. "When d'you suppose we'll be heading out of this place? Think we'll have enough time for all your courses before we're on the road again?"

Bilbo opens his mouth, then purses his lips. "Fair point. Four it is, but I won't have you getting ahead of yourself when everything is settled."

"Right. You're a fair cook for a burglar."

"Thank you," says Bilbo, looking charmingly satisfied.


	7. Bilbo/Thorin, accidental voyeurism (explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=10007829#t10007829  
> Bilbo is shy, so he waits until the Dwarves are done bathing in the river, and only then takes his turn. And because he's afraid someone might still walk in on him, he puts on his ring.  
> He's just done washing his hair when Thorin comes along. Apparently he also wanted to be alone. And because of the way Thorin has placed himself, Bilbo is caught between him and a rock and can't get away without making his presence known.  
> So now he's stuck there, naked in the water, with a naked Thorin right next to him. _Okay, just don't look, and hope he doesn't take his time. What is he doing now? Is he rubbing his... so that's why he wanted to bathe alone! Oh, gods..._

It's a relief to put on his magic ring and disappear from sight, even if this shadow-world is murky and somber. Privacy is a rare thing among this company, and it's begun to seem natural even to Bilbo to consider anything that goes on as part of his own business, no matter what it might be—everything, out here, affects everyone, and the more that is known to each member of their company, the more they can work together, fight together, and live comfortably—as comfortably as possible—out in the wilderness.

Bathing, however, is unworkable. Months ago, Bilbo would not even have bathed in the presence of other hobbits, unless his closer cousins had set up multiple tubs in the wash-room and there were no other way to get himself into the water before it cooled; even in that case, he'd be afforded some privacy. In this case, there is none—nor do any of the dwarves seem to consider it essential. He had set up his packs among the rest of them, but as they all climbed to shore, sopping wet and laughing, he soon found it necessary to move them, because some of the younger dwarves found no need to reclothe themselves so soon after their wash, and if Bilbo were caught either staring or consciously avoiding the sight, they'd all likely have a laugh.

The ring seems to come in handy at times like these—and, increasingly, Bilbo finds himself wondering how he'd ever gotten along without it. The shadow-world is a little cold, it's true, especially as Bilbo strips bare, but he suspects it's more to do with the ethereal fogginess of it rather than any real chill, so he oughtn't be afraid of catching a cold. He can place his clothes by his baggage without the worry of having them seen floating through the air, but he's still careful to do so when it's clear that all attention is directed away from his modest little packs.

From there, it's only a quick tip-toe to the river, and he finds a quiet and secluded place where he can wash with his back to a run of flat-sided, jutting rocks—just in case. He would rather have some nice Bywater-milled soap rather than this chunk of tallow, but considering the sight and smell of dwarves, more often than not, it ought to essentially do the trick.

He soaps himself up thoroughly, breathing deep. There is almost a sort of peace in passing alone and unseen in the wild. He can even sit on the bank and give his feet a thorough scrubbing—but that will come last, as it takes the longest, and for now Bilbo contents himself with the feeling of skin newly freed from sweat and dirt and oil. The river takes it all downstream.

He has lathered up a good froth of bubbles in his hair when there is a noise by the bank to his right, and Bilbo rolls his eyes—heavy footsteps are ever the tell-tale sign of a dwarf from yards away, even at his quietest. Probably fishing—Bilbo will have to do his best to keep out of the way, but he wishes, all the same, that they'd leave the river well enough _alone_ after they'd done with it. He turns and sees the hulking shadow of Thorin II Oakenshield, King under the Mountain and a Guaranteed Bother in Times of Needed Solitude.

For a minute, Thorin seems to be looking straight at him, and Bilbo freezes, wondering if he's not as invisible as he'd planned to be—but Thorin's gaze passes this way and that without pausing again at Bilbo, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

It stops mid-way when he sees that Thorin has shed his coat and is already tugging off his boots, revealing some surprisingly comfortable-looking knitted socks. Perhaps he's looking to dip his feet—the socks are off too. Bilbo looks toward the far bank, suddenly aware that giving away his position now would cause Thorin some alarm—he'd scanned the river so carefully—and he'd have no choice but to appear from somewhere behind the trees, naked as indecency personified.

Perhaps he'll be done soon. Bilbo glances back, and nearly lets out a yelp; Thorin has discarded all but his trousers, and is pulling these off with alacrity, as if embarrassed in the act itself, and—Bilbo has nowhere to go.

Hadn't Thorin been in the river earlier, with the other dwarves? Bilbo would groan aloud if he weren't afraid of giving himself away—he hadn't been; he'd muttered something about splattering and spectacles and stalked off to find them some firewood, or something, and Bilbo clearly remembers, now, how he'd quite agreed and puffed lazily on his pipe while the rest went and watched. Fool! Better to have bathed with a bunch of rowdy dwarves than to sneak around and spy on their naked king, even if the view is excellent.

He really ought to look away—really—but Thorin is stepping with surety into the river, nothing on him but the key on its golden chain. He's well-muscled and nicely built, with dark, thick hair on his chest, narrowing to a strip that trails to his navel and then flares out slightly down to his—Bilbo flushes despite himself and resolves to close his eyes. But what if Thorin moves closer to him? There'll be no way to know until it's too late—he's got to keep an eye on Thorin and look for an exit strategy as soon as possible.

He realizes that he is actually staring only when a blob of soap-suds drips into his eye, stinging unpleasantly. He blinks automatically as the world blurs even more than usual, trying to get the suds from his eye and to keep watch on Thorin at the same time—his foot slips on something slimy at the bottom of the river, and suddenly the water is all around him, and he scrabbles at the jutting rocks for a panicked moment before surfacing once more, strained with the effort of both gasping for air and keeping quiet.

Thorin has moved further in, one fist clenched, his height an advantage in water that is chest-deep for Bilbo. Bilbo's idiotic thrashing and floundering must have attracted his attention.

"Who's there?"

Receiving no answer, Thorin narrows his eyes and peers about the water while Bilbo clings to the rocks, hair plastered to his forehead. After what seems like nearly a minute, Thorin opens his palm to reveal—a little block of soap. Bilbo relaxes. But Thorin's quite close to him, now, and if he plans to wash thoroughly then there'll be a tough time of escaping his notice. Thorin is already rubbing the soap along his arms and shoulders, working up a bit of lather, skin shining wetly in the sun, and as he dips down into the water Bilbo finds his chance to slip back off of the rocks.

 _All right_ , he thinks, _keep an eye out and give him some privacy, even if he's beautiful—er, even if he's trespassing upon_ your _privacy_. But there's still no way to get around him without heading into the deeper water, and even if Bilbo swam through it his big feet would kick up a splash that would give him away in seconds. He finds his footing and leans close against the rocks, hoping his fingers don't wrinkle up like so many raisins and give him away later. But thoughts of present danger ought to take precedence.

It won't hurt, really, to keep an eye on Thorin. Just in case he gets closer and Bilbo needs the warning to move, of course. And he's quite lovely, especially when he's all wet, and bubbles slide down his shoulder and rest on the gentle curve of his chest like that before a ripple of water causes them to drip into the river. Thorin soaps his under-arms with care, and Bilbo can see his nostrils flare—probably with relief, and he quite understands. The solid bulges of his muscles flex admirably.

Thorin soaps up his hands, now, which Bilbo finds odd— _they'll get a good wash as he does his body, won't they?_ —and dips them in the water to rinse them, but only one resurfaces, holding the block of soap, and— _oh, goodness_ —

The movements of Thorin's arm, submerged though its lower part might be in the water, is unmistakable. As is the way he now grits his teeth, and the way his free fingers flex over the block of soap before bringing it back to his front, stroking it haphazardly over his pectorals before focusing more on his nipples, hard as they are in the cold air. Bilbo's mouth drops open and he stares unabashedly; were his cheeks visible, they would be a shameful pink, but he cannot look away.

Thorin moans then, low and nearly inaudible. Bilbo's cock twitches at the noise and he almost moans himself. Despite the cool water, there is definitely a responsive tension in him. The slow movements of Thorin's arms in the water and over his body, the look on his face—something caught between satisfaction and desperation—somehow, it's all more arousing than the images that Bilbo pulls up at night—hard, jutting cocks and plump bottoms and hands and mouths moving over everything—when he's got a private moment.

Thorin lets out a little _ah_ , and Bilbo starts. His hand is still slow, drawing it out, releasing the need that has built up for weeks of journeying with no privacy during day or night. Bilbo feels hot despite the water that laps about his chest. He lowers his own hand and grasps himself, drawing his fingers lightly about the shaft, and watches Thorin's breast as it rises steadily and proudly. If he's quiet, he can bring himself off—

The wind dies, and all is still but for Thorin as he continues to touch himself. He keeps releasing little moans and Bilbo longs to join him, wishing that Thorin would somehow see him and press him up against the rocks, but he contents himself with sliding his fingers up and down his cock, watching the flush rise in Thorin's face. The fine little soap molds to the shape of Thorin's fingerprints as he grasps and squeezes it, and Bilbo imagines that hand on his own cock, squeezing gently, and that _ah, ah, ahh_ in his ear. He ought to be ashamed of himself, but he can only watch and breathe and stroke in his own estimation of Thorin's rhythm, though he wishes he'd go faster and make enough noise in the water that Bilbo can come to completion without being heard.

"Mahal," Thorin says, and bows his head so that his hair hangs down to the water. He lowers himself, and Bilbo realizes he's probably spread his legs, and wishes more than anything that he could see Thorin's cock jut outward, thick and delicious, and the jiggle of his rocks every time his hand slaps to the base of his shaft. He would stroke them, if he could, round and round, so long as Thorin kept up his hand on his cock and came in beautiful white strings on Bilbo's face, he would, he would—

His shoulder is causing ripples in the water; he lowers himself a little so that the river comes up to his neck and continues. All at once Thorin hisses through his teeth and seems to lose control, splashing away and throwing back his head so that Bilbo can practically see the pulse fluttering in his throat. A barely-contained moan rumbles from Thorin's throat as he nears the end, and Bilbo watches it all with wide eyes, still stroking himself slowly—slowly—he feels his own peak building sweet and deep in his stones, and as Thorin goes stiff and jerks in the water, Bilbo's eyes roll back and he comes, the force of it causing the world to blank out until the swirling of the river around his face and neck brings him back.

Thorin seems to be staring at the water—regaining his composure, likely—and soon he moves a little backward against the small waves, and cups river-water in his hands to slosh over his head and neck. Bilbo shudders, realizing that the current is bringing Thorin's seed toward him, diluted as it is.

He's acting daft. He's got to get out of the river. And Thorin isn't done washing, he's only on his legs and feet now. Bilbo would try to climb over the rocks but for the inconvenience of the wet hand-prints that would probably appear all over them. Thorin keeps moving back against the current, and he's turning toward the shore, away from Bilbo, and—the opening becomes clear. Bilbo wades as silently as he can, glad he's invisible as he undoubtably looks completely ridiculous with his arms stretched out over the surface to give him balance. The air is chill around his wet skin. If he gets a cold, he'll have to think of some excuse for it.

-

"Bombur," Thorin says later, when they're all camped around the fire. Bilbo stays as close as possible, wondering if they'll let him sleep there tonight or if Bofur will say something again about him rolling right into the flames. He absolutely does not look at Thorin.

"Aye."

"I want you to see if you can catch anything in the river."

"There's no fish there, not now," says Kíli. "We had a look earlier before we got in."

"There is," says Thorin. "At least one of remarkable size, and we'll have it tomorrow, if we can."

Bilbo sinks a little further toward the ground.

"Not in the mood for fish?" asks Thorin, causing him to jump. "I'm afraid we don't have any ham and pudding for you, Mr. Baggins."

"Fish is fine," Bilbo manages, red to the tips of his ears. "Fish is fine."

Try as they might, none of the company can catch a fish, and Thorin soon calls for them to move on. No one dares to mention that there is nothing in the river but rocks.


	8. Bofur/Dwalin: unrequited (PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mimi, who asked: "Do you think you could do a Dwalin/Bofur fill? It could be about unrequited feelings or whatever you decide. I would like to see them get together though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: James Nesbitt calls it his "whistle"; I assume it's one of [these](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tin_whistle). I hope this fill is sufficient to your needs!

It remains a mystery to elves and men, somehow, that dwarves, coarse as they are, with fingers so thick, should be able to produce beautiful exquisite things and such fine details.  To Bofur, it's natural.  Mahal made them to make again, and every fine thing once came from something crude.

When he looks at Dwalin, though, he sees a warrior—someone naturally roughened—and if Dwalin were to make anything it'd be heavy weaponry, iron and steel forged in the heat of his single-minded concentration, and if Dwalin were to put his hands to anything with the best of his skill, it would be the haft of an axe.  So Bofur is surprised to find that he plays the viol—that he plays it so _well_ —that he'd brought it at all, probably stowed somewhere nice and comfortable between his knives and his warhammer.  He wonders how Dwalin's callused fingers can even feel the strings.  Perhaps, as a lad, he'd built up the calluses on the strings themselves.

Dwalin's a hulking great dwarf with a personality to match, but Bofur's not intimidated; he's known dwarves like him before, battle-roughened folk, fellows down in the mines who've lost an arm or more and keep working.  He's highly impressed, though, especially when he sees how skilled Dwalin is with anything he lays his hands on—weapons, crockery, even food when Bombur's out of commission and they need something more than a bit of bread to keep them on their feet.  He's got real technique with a blade, which is something Bofur has never accomplished with his mattock, preferring to swing and whack as quickly as possible.  But especially the viol—not that his playing is the sort that would move the toughest warrior to tears.  Kept time well.  Familiar with the classics.  Got especially cheery, too, but that was probably the ale in him.

There is no good reason that he shouldn't be able to get the memory out of his mind, but he thinks of it as they blow smoke rings in the cool night breeze, and in the mornings, when Dwalin spares him a glance that is good as a cheery nod from a dwarf like him.  He thinks of it as he sees Dwalin bury his axe in a warg's skull as easily as he'd scraped bow along strings.  It sifts around in his mind until he remembers—strong, silent, and stubborn has always been his type.

On occasion Gandalf will give the all-clear, and Bofur will bring out his whistle and give them a song.  Some are standards known across the Blue Mountains, and some are ditties he'd learned from men in his travels to Bree and Archet.  His only regret is that he can't play and sing at the same time, but most of their company is quick to pick up a tune.  And one night, when they're all cheery and there's fresh waybread and a stew bubbling, he sits beside Dwalin.

Dwalin doesn't speak, so Bofur sits and cleans his whistle, stroking his rag along the body and mouthpiece, and takes his time to such an extent that Dwalin eventually turns to him with a pointed look.  Bofur winks.

"You ought to get out your fiddle," he says.  "If only to give it some air."

Dwalin scoffs.

"Oh, come on," Bofur says, twirling his whistle between his forefinger and thumb.  "We could use something that's not a common dwarf's tootling."

"Not out here, we couldn't," Dwalin says, nodding toward the Trollshaws where they stand dark and silent near the road.  "Go on and play, though, if you won't mind new company."

"Present company's sufficient," says Bofur.  "Wish I did have a spit rod, though."

"Get a piece off your tunic," says Dwalin.  Bofur looks at him with astonishment until he realizes it's a joke, and the utter absurdity hits him for a moment.  He laughs.

"Perhaps yours might suit better," he says, before even thinking.  "High-quality stuff."

Dwalin doesn't offer a response, but he doesn't give him a glare either—a good sign.  Bofur feels suddenly giddy.  He's never been an outright flirt, but Dwalin is—attractive, to say the least.  He'd noticed it first off when Thorin had stepped foot into their little home with Dwalin by his side; he and Bombur and Bifur had accepted the venture without question when it was made clear exactly how much gold lay possibly unclaimed under the Lonely Mountain.  And he'd been impressed—mightily impressed—by the dignity of his King, but also by the grace and bearing of his Head of Guard, and how he, Bofur, might call these dwarves his companions in only months' time.

Bofur decides that hobnobbing is what it's cracked up to be.  But he's easily pleased.

"That's a no, then?"

Dwalin does glare at him then, and Bofur widens his own eyes innocently.  He's pushing his luck.  He might make it out of this night without a sore spot somewhere, but he hopes—he really does—that the sore spot will be from the grip of Dwalin's fingers rather than a drubbing.  It's worth a try.

"What're you doing?"

"Well," Bofur says, "I thought it might be obvious."

"It's obvious," says Dwalin, and lowers his voice so that his words are practically a rumble.  "Though your decisions could use some work."

"What ain't obvious to _me_ ," Bofur says, "is if you're raisin' this objection over the method of proposition or the proposition itself."

Dwalin goes quiet at this, and Bofur thinks that he may have an actual chance at being the luckiest dwarf this side of the Loudwater.  He leans back and looks up at the stars and tries not to count the seconds until Dwalin speaks again.

"Long journey to the mountain."

"True enough."

"Little chance of survival.  So—y'understand if I—if I can't—"

"I've got you," says Bofur, and it's really all right—Dwalin has left someone waiting in Ered Luin, perhaps, or a dwarf from Erebor whose memory he keeps close as they get ever closer.  It wouldn't be his place to end that, he thinks.  He knows what's what.  He stows his whistle into his pack, then spreads his bedroll out, and says no more about it.

Dwalin doesn't pick up and head to a different part of camp, and that's some comfort.

-

Bofur takes out his whistle again at Rivendell.  He sings about the Man in the Moon and they're all having a romping good time when Bilbo requests a song from the Shire that he doesn't know—something about traveling, which makes him a little homesick even as the rhythm speeds up.  It's not a tune he's heard before, but it's easy to pick out, only four or so chords before the bridge, and soon Bilbo is singing along in a surprisingly fine voice with Fíli and Kíli stamping along beside him.  It's better than that drowsy tripe the Elves had performed at dinner, and they've got good roast meat now instead of all that floppy green stuff, and things are looking up.

Bilbo suddenly changes key, voice squeaking a step higher, and Bofur adjusts within seconds, though he finds it easier to lower his tune and pick out a pleasing harmony.  The lads are clapping along now, and even Thorin looks pleased, which is something.  Bofur ventures a glance at Dwalin, who seems contented enough.

The song ends abruptly when Gandalf steps in and requests that Bilbo, Thorin, and Balin accompany him to speak to the elf-lord.  Dwalin doesn't look happy about this, but it's safe to assume that after feeding them, offering them rest, and granting them asylum, the elves may not be such a bad lot as Bofur's always heard.

Dwalin watches their backs as they depart, then turns to Bofur and nods toward his whistle.

"You play by ear?"

"Oh, aye, always did.  Handy in a pinch when you can't read the music."

"What, never?" says Fíli, settling down at his other side.

"Slow business.  Far easier to hear what you're meant to do and just—do it."

Dwalin inspects his knuckle-duster.  "Most wouldn't call it easier."

Bofur raises his eyebrows.  "Would that include you?"

Dwalin doesn't answer, which is as good as an affirmation.  Bofur lies easily on his side, feeling a bit full of himself.

"I'd offer to teach," he says, "if it were something that could be taught.  I'm afraid you'll have to envy my skills forever."

Dwalin snorts derisively.  Bofur props his head up on his hand and casts a look over their packs.  Fire and ale have made him a bit warm, even in his smalls.

"Why have you brought your fiddle?" he asks. _Only going to play it once, and never let me hear it again?_

"Thought I'd need it," Dwalin says.

Something clenches tight and sweet around Bofur's heart, and doesn't let go for the rest of the night.

-

He ought not to do this to himself, but he can't help it.  Despite the pang of infeasibility, it makes his thoughts light and happy, and brings a smile to his face even when rain pours off the flaps of his hat and long weeks of walking strain him.  Only Bombur notes the difference.

Perhaps if his manner were more refined—perhaps if he was more than a miner—but then he wouldn't be Bofur; still, Dwalin seems easy around him, much easier than even at the beginning of their journey, and when his eyes linger Bofur feels the gaze to the tips of his toes.

-

Bofur clings, dazed, to his tree, while fire rages around them and Dwalin charges to meet their fallen king and Bilbo where he stands ready for a warg to close its hot, stinking mouth around his neck.   _Loyalty to the crown_ , he thinks, and watches him fling an orc five feet across the ground.  His grip on the branch falters; he'd been all for fiery pinecones, at first, but as flame licks the limbs and trunk of their last hope, the heat makes his palms slippery.

Dwalin's bellow is loud above even the snarling of the pale orc.  Bofur wants to laugh. If he's to plummet to his death, he can at least be jolly about it; it comes out strange, though, more like a screech—and he barely has time to wonder at it before he's picked out of his tree like an apple at last harvest, and then he's falling—until he hits the back of a giant bird and sheer instinct tells him to hold on.

When they land, he's shaky on his feet.  Everyone's there, miraculously—Thorin's unconscious until Gandalf tends him, and Dwalin's hardly let any harm come to his blades, let alone himself.  Bofur still feels the clutch of talons around his body and the terrifying tumble through the air, but he's woozy with relief.

They make their way to the foot of the Carrock, and Dwalin claps him on the shoulder.  It fortifies him, lets him forget that he'd rather be safely underground, reminds him that Erebor is just ahead, only through a patch of elf-forest and the Desolation.

Little chance of survival, he remembers.  But it feels as though they've got a lot more luck—the sort that comes to figures of legend—the sort that doesn't run out.

-

Things change in Mirkwood.  Bifur sits beside him, staring and blank, with a hand on Bombur's forehead.  Bofur wishes he could close his eyes and huddle with both of them as they did when they were young, and perhaps Bombur would wake and stretch his limbs and he won't just be lying here, sleeping endlessly, driving dread into Bofur's gut every time he's shaken and doesn't respond.  He holds Bombur's hand and feels useless.

Then the spiders come.

It's almost a relief when they come to the forest kingdom, pointy-eared though their hosts may be.  He's starved and nearly mad with thirst and by the time he's locked up he wants nothing more than the bread and water they give him.  Dwalin had pulled him near by the arm when they were surrounded and taken captive, and so he's kept alongside Dwalin in his cell.

It's a shameful thing to be so weak and hungry that his ears prick up when he hears light footsteps echo in the hall, and he moves straight to the cell door to receive their food.  He looks the elves in the eye, at least, and Dwalin never says a word about it.  Bombur is conscious, too, having woken unexpectedly, and now Bofur can hear his brother's snores at night—welcome over the motionlessness of dead-silent sleep.

He tends to stay lighthearted when they need it most, so he jokes and hums while they wait for Bilbo, but it's hard—after the initial reprieve in relative safety, they're still not out.  Dwalin paces and grumbles, seeming twice as big in the little cell, like a wolf cooped up with its hackles always raised.

It's now or never, Bofur decides.  Although it seems to _always_ be 'now or never', every time they're caught and surrounded or bitten by heinous beasts or hurtling along in the dark among countless enemies, he always thinks _it's too late, too late_ —to tell Dwalin how he feels.  They've got time now, though.  He clears his throat.

Dwalin looks toward him, face just visible in the meager light through their cell bars.

"I want to say—" Bofur begins, and realizes he doesn't know what to say at all.  He stands and nervously dusts off his knees.

"What?"

 _Now or never_ , he thinks.   _You can't have come all this way just to be a coward_.

"It wasn't this way at—during the—in the elf-place.  Rivendell.  I've come to feel that we could—be happy together.  But I would've been more genteel about it, honest."

Silence passes between them, and Dwalin sits—heavily.  Bofur takes off his hat.

"I won't ever mind if you can't feel the same, and I'll say no more about it, if that's what you wish.  I wanted you to know.  And, well, there it is."

"You bloody idiot."

Dwalin is laughing.  Bofur gapes.  "Now wait just a minute—"

"You idiot," says Dwalin again, and stands.

Within seconds Bofur is pressed against the wall, the force of Dwalin's grip nearly bringing him off the ground.  This isn't the way he'd prefer to go, but if he had to—

"D'you think I'd care about the way you'd come on to me?  Do I look like the sort of dwarf who'd care?"

"Well, no, but—"

"I'd've had you there and then if I didn't think we'd be dying in months' time."  Dwalin's voice is low, nearly a growl, and though Bofur knows logically that it's to keep their conversation out of other ears, all it serves to do is send a jolt of desire up his spine.  He finds his footing on the floor and wraps both of his hands around Dwalin's fist.

"Really," he manages, all the possibilities flooding his head at once and making him dizzy with joyousness.

"Pointless," Dwalin mutters.  "Pointless."  And he closes the gap between them, kissing Bofur with demanding force.  Bofur carefully tangles his hands in Dwalin's beard and holds him there, anchored, while he draws back and brushes his face gently against his whiskers; then, with a drive equal to Dwalin's, he parts his lips and lets Dwalin crush him against the wall.

He's pretty sure they can be heard down the hall by their company or by elven guards—he doesn't care.  Bombur, at least, will be pleased that his pining will have come to an end, and the elves can go bugger their beloved trees.

-

Day is distinguishable from night only by the thin grey light that leaks through the bars, and the fact that his body, used to rising at dawn, stirs and wakes before he can burrow his face deeper into Dwalin's chest and stave off the return to consciousness.  He tries anyway.

Dwalin's breathing is even, but not slow enough to disguise his wakefulness.  Bofur would give anything for a day—just one—when they might lie in an actual bed, and not a barely-padded platform such as this; to go back and visit Beorn, and sit in the garden tasting honey and cream until darkness falls and they can lie by a fire.

"Never thought you'd try it again," says Dwalin, voice morning-rough.  Bofur presses his nose against his chest.  "Thought I'd blown it then, and I hadn't realized 'til too late."

"You play your viol beautifully," says Bofur abruptly.  Dwalin pauses, caught off-guard.

"That was it," he says, after a while.  "The songs."

"That was it, wasn't it?"

"It was pointless to tell myself not to want you." Dwalin grips him by the shoulder and tugs him upward; Bofur goes willingly.

They kiss until the bread and water comes.


	9. Thorin/Dwalin: babysitting Fíli & Kíli (PG)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3393.html?thread=5637185#t5637185  
> "I'd like to see Thorin and Dwalin in an established relationship babysitting Fíli and Kíli, perhaps ever so slightly sad that this is the closest they'll come to having children."

Two halls away, Thorin can hear them already.

"—and they'll want to play with weapons, don't let them, Fíli especially likes to throw knives around indoors and we're always having to stitch up the tapestries—"

"As if I'd let them!"

"Dwalin, promise me."

A smaller voice— "Îma, îma, I can watch him, we don't need Dwalin—"

"Dwalin!"

"You have my word."

He reaches the doorway and raps his knuckles against the stone arch. Someone small scrabbles at the door before Dís pulls it open.

"Fíli, let Thorin in." The little dwarrow is scowling, arms crossed, feet firmly planted, before his mother tugs him gently away by the shoulder. "Thank you. I can have Óin come, if this is too much trouble—"

"We've led the people of Erebor across the face of Arda," says Dwalin, and Thorin nearly smiles at the indignation in his voice.

"Of course, yes," says Dís. She crouches low and smooths a hand over Fíli's hair, careful not to upset his braids. This is only one, handful though he seems to be. Dwalin looks questioningly toward Thorin.

"There's another one of these, isn't there?"

"He's sleeping—" begins Dís, and is interrupted by Fíli's protests.

"I can look after him, îma, I can do it myself—"

"Fíli," she says, and he falls silent, but sneaks a look at Thorin and Dwalin when she rises again. "They're here so _you_ can look after _them_. Be good. I'll be home late." She adjusts her coat and turns to Thorin. "Put them to bed at sundown."

"All right," he says. Fíli is pacified, but he hangs onto her skirt until she can detach him and pull Thorin out into the hall.

"Don't let them overwhelm him," she mutters, glancing back at the door. "I know how he is with goblins and criminals, but this might be a bit much."

"He'll be fine," says Thorin, and with that she nods, claps a fond hand on his shoulder, and leaves.

He returns to find Dwalin standing alone in the entrance hall, looking toward the kitchen.

"Where is Fíli?"

"Said he was getting something to show me," says Dwalin, and before Thorin can track him down and head him off, Fíli returns, marching importantly into the entrance hall with a squirming bundle over his shoulder.

The look on Dwalin's face makes it clear that he hadn't been expecting it to be an even smaller dwarrow. Thorin takes Kíli before he wriggles out of Fíli's grip, and hands the blankets to Dwalin, who holds them like he has so often held a shield. Kíli blinks and rests his forehead against Thorin's shoulder, and for a moment it seems like he's going to fall back to sleep, but Fíli tugs at his foot and he looks around blearily.

"Îma?"

"Er—"

"I want to hold him!" Fíli tugs at Kíli's foot again, other arm outstretched, and Thorin scowls.

Dwalin disappears with the blanket, and in a moment reenters the room with an arm behind his back. Thorin greatly suspects dwarrow-bait. He nods Fíli's attention toward him, and while he's distracted, Kíli fully opens his eyes. Thorin takes him into the sitting room, wondering what he can _do_ until sundown.

"Oi, you little—" Dwalin's curse is cut off by Fíli's triumphant crow, and Thorin has barely sat down before Fíli struts into the room with a biscuit clutched in his hand.

"I got it."

"I see," says Thorin. Kíli, sleepy though he is, immediately starts clamoring for one, and Dwalin sighs audibly from the hall.

-

Thorin finds ink and parchment, and Fíli busies himself writing _fehu_ over and over again on a patch of floor not covered by lush carpet. Dwalin looks distinctly uncomfortable with Kíli inspecting him so closely, but, to his credit, he sits still and lets his hair be patted. Kíli's little fingers sweep over his head.

"Why is no hair at this part?"

"Shaved it off," says Dwalin. Thorin snorts.

"Why?"

"Wanted to."

Fíli looks up at him skeptically. "Everyone does braids."

"Not everyone," says Thorin. Dwalin looks appealing like this, sitting patient and motionless while Kíli steps over his legs and sometimes grabs his beard for balance. Kíli stumbles and Dwalin catches him with lightning-fast reflexes, placing him firmly on a cushion, and Thorin nearly laughs—Kíli is standing on Dwalin's knee again within seconds.

"What's that?" asks Kíli, looking closely at Dwalin's knuckles. Thorin glances at them—they seem almost naked without their usual armor. Dwalin spreads his fingers and lets him trace the blue-black designs.

"Ink," he says. Fíli kicks his feet in the air, splotches of pen-ink already staining his hands. "Commemorates a great battle."

Kíli swivels his head to look at Thorin. "Can I have ink?"

"No."

"Why?"

"What's it say?" asks Fíli, having used up both sides of his parchment with runes and scribbles.

"Baruk Khazâd," says Thorin. "And many other things besides."

"What about that?" Kíli points to his other hand.

" 'If you can read this'—" begins Dwalin at the same time as Thorin says, "Never mind that," but they are both interrupted as Fíli stands and promptly knocks over his ink bottle. Thorin breathes slowly through his nose and moves to handle the mess, while Dwalin holds Kíli by the scruff of his tunic before he can jump in the puddle and demand that Fíli draw runes on his hands.

-

 _Baruk Khazâd_ has not escaped Fíli's consideration; soon he stands on tip-toe, reaching for his mother's battle-axe where it hangs on its decorative plaque. Dwalin and Thorin are there in an instant, and although using biscuits as bait seems to be losing its effect, they successfully redirect his attention to the safer wooden play-axes in the sitting room, and he runs back in, leaving them alone, for a moment, in the hall.

Dwalin leans against the wall, glad of the reprieve, and Thorin steps near to him, reaching out to smooth his beard where it has been tangled by grubby fingers. Dwalin catches Thorin's hand.

"D'you ever think—"

He doesn't get a chance to finish; there's boisterous laughter from the sitting room, a thump, and then silence followed by an indistinct wail, and though Thorin's expression leaves Dwalin burning, he lets go of his hand and goes to investigate.

Fíli sits looking guiltily at Kíli, whose forehead bears a fresh red bump. Two play-axes lie discarded by his feet. As Kíli begins to sniff and sob, Thorin enters and sweeps him up, bringing him out of the room and leaving Dwalin alone with Fíli, who looks at him nervously.

"I didn't mean to."

" 'Course not," says Dwalin. But Kíli's sobs get steadily louder, and Thorin's halting attempts at soothing him seem to have no effect— _he ought not to coddle the lad so much_ , Dwalin thinks. Fíli's eyes fill with tears.

 _Ah, bugger_.

"Hey, now," he says. "Just a bump on the head. Hardly going to remember by the time your mum's home." This doesn't seem to help—Fíli's face scrunches up and a big tear runs down his cheek. Dwalin sits heavily on a chair and Fíli turns toward him, scrubbing a sleeve across his eyes.

He has no idea what to do. He considers telling Fíli about the time he broke Balin's nose, or the time Dís nearly shot through Thorin's hand with her first bow, or how Óin dropped his own nephew Gimli on his head, and the lad has turned out all right, really—

"C'mere," he says, and Fíli readily steps into his arms, scooting up and wiping his nose on Dwalin's shoulder. "Now, do big dwarves cry?"

"No," says Fíli, muffled against his arm.

"What do big dwarves do instead?"

Silence. And then— "Don't know."

"They put their axe in a warg."

Fíli nods, hiccuping.

"Go on, say it."

"They put their axe in a warg."

"Good kid."

Kíli's sobs have subsided by the time Thorin brings him back into the sitting room. Seeing Fíli, he immediately reaches to be held by Dwalin as well—Thorin places him carefully on Dwalin, and then meets his lips in a quick kiss, brushing a thumb across Dwalin's cheekbone.

"Right," says Thorin, as he settles beside them. "Go to sleep, you two."

"No," says Kíli.

Dwalin frowns. "Follow orders."

-

He wakes again when Dís closes the door behind her. The fire has burned low and Thorin is fast asleep with his head drooping to the side; Fíli and Kíli are still curled up in Dwalin's arms.

She takes Kíli first, and he stays asleep, somehow, as she carries him away; Fíli is more reluctant to go, but she pries him off at last, and Dwalin stands, knees clicking, to face Thorin. "Wake up."

Thorin stirs and looks up at him. Dwalin's breath catches—as always. The question burns on his tongue, but it's something to be said when they're alone, when he's thought everything through and is sure that he won't regret it.

"You can come back," says Dís from behind him. She's leaning against the doorway. “Any time.”

"Right," says Dwalin. Thorin stands and moves to embrace her, and when he turns back, Dwalin wants—oh, how he wants. But Fíli is young and strong, and Kíli, should the worst happen—Thorin will have no need for an heir of his own body.

"Come," says Thorin.

They settle back in his quarters, and within the hour, Thorin is deeply asleep. Dwalin holds him close.

He'll ask tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to decipher dwalin's knuckle tattoos on his right hand and i got as far as B A R U K? / KH A Z Á ?. i think we can guess the last rune is D! the left hand remains a mystery for now, so i substituted graham mctavish's idea:  
> https://twitter.com/grahammctavish/status/291319594625413120  
> although i'm not sure you can fit all of that on a fist.


End file.
